


Marooned [RETIRED]

by gouguruheddo



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Diary/Journal, Dysphoria, Established Relationship, False Memories, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Main character names are not canon names, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Reincarnation, Sexual Content, Short Chapters, What did you mean by false memories?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-04-06 09:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gouguruheddo/pseuds/gouguruheddo
Summary: Eric Williams is a marketing professor married to the ballet dancer Leland Keller. They live a typical and quiet life in New England--moving through life as "normal" as possible. Then, Eric remembers a name, and with it an uncertainty about his life, his husband's, and the world in general.





	1. The Name

**Author's Note:**

> fic deals with mental illnesses and dysphoric elements that may trigger some people. read at your own discretion.

Eric Williams is the kind of man that always remembers names with their faces. The kind of man that can make anyone in a crowd feel like an individual. A man with a handshake strong enough to save men. He’s smart talking, not as a facade, but as a truth. Good posture, straight white teeth, glacial blue eyes, well manicured blond hair. Eric is a man people like to know.

He smiles, the dimness of the restaurant feels as dull as the alcohol that clouds his mind. He holds the whiskey tumbler at the tips of his fingers and lets his eyes rove without hesitation. He chuckles once as he places his drink down. He shakes his head and draws his hand down his face. “That can’t possibly be true,” Eric says to a crowded room, but he’s speaking to one man--the only man that matters.

“Of course it’s true,” he says. He’s a small thing, baked hard with muscles that sticks to bones, and the tendons in his neck tense as he leans his elbows on the cloth table. “And then she fuckin’ has the balls to tell her that ‘maybe she’s better off retiring’. Can you believe that?”

“Sounds like jealousy,” Eric says, running his finger along the edge of his glass.

The man snorts and slumps in his chair. “Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised.” He sighs and directs his attention to the silver salad fork. His finger rubs up and down the length of it as he gnaws at his bottom lip. Sucking in a breath of air, he looks back up to Eric. “Patricia is too good for the company anyway. Girl’s always had too much talent. She should be up in Boston or something.”

“I agree.”

“She’s too young.”

“Yes.”

The man picks up his water glass and drinks down the rest of it before resting it back on the table. Eric picks up the blue glass bottle of water--its contents from some spring in the Adirondacks--and carefully pours more into the man’s glass. “Thanks,” the man responds, quietly.

“Certainly.”

They’re quiet for a few moments before he speaks again, “It’s just exhausting.”

“I know, darling.” Eric shifts in his seat, picks up his whiskey again and downs the rest of it with an open throat. He rests it back on the table as he sits up straighter. “You did all that you could.”

“It’s not high school anymore.”

Eric chuckles, “No, thankfully not.” His eyes wander down the wide collar of the man’s shirt. It’s soft grey, peeks his collarbones under a smoky blue cardigan. Even in the dim light, the paleness of his skin shines pink from his frustration, and Eric parts his lips as he breathes in deep. He smirks devilishly. “If it were, we would be in trouble.”

The man leans forward, matching the smirk with one of his own. His loafer hits the inside of Eric’s knee, and a single thin eyebrow raises. “Are you playing professor tonight, Dr. Williams?”

“Leland,” Eric closes his eyes for a moment, the buzzing of chattering tables around him, the warmth that envelopes him, his husband teasing him from across the table. Composure comes slowly when he opens his eyes. “When am I ever not playing the professor?”

They finish their meals, and Leland drives them home. He complains how expensive it’s gotten to cross the bridge into Newport, that they should have deducted that money from the tip they left. Eric squeezes his hand, feels the four shots of whiskey weighing his head back against the headrest. He doesn’t complain when Leland runs his hand up his thigh, when he leans over a little too far over the center console to cup his hand on Eric’s crotch. He groans as he rolls his hips up, mutters something about how Leland should be paying attention to the road, but doesn’t push the hand away. He allows himself to be pet to attention as he sighs out against the cold car window.

It’s three flights up to their loft, and Leland holds Eric’s hand the entire way to their apartment. Eric pushes Leland into the door, bends down to kiss him as he fumbles with his keys. The door swings open, and they don’t even bother to turn on the lights when it closes behind them. Leland is against the wall, his body hiked up and his legs draping around Eric’s hips. They kiss, long soft kisses that seem to last years, generations, lifetimes, and even when Eric feels too drunk, he always remembers exactly how to please his husband. He holds Leland’s chin within his hand, looks down at him and sees the moon in his eyes when he says: “I love you, Lee.”

Leland Keller is the kind of man that worked for everything he ever had. The type of man that made little friends but for those that he had, he kept forever. A man that could be counted on for his honesty, one that would always be willing to fight and protect. Dark haired, short, built, beautiful. A ferociously loyal thing, he never said the words unless he meant it with every fiber of his being: “I love you too.”

Eric carries Leland to their bed. He sets him down on the edge of it, kisses him until he can no longer breathe, and continues to do so even after that. He unwraps Leland one article of clothing at a time, taking care to keep the stitchings of his hems intact, the buttons sewn in their places. He’s drunk, but more so on love, and he whispers it on Leland’s lips. “Eight years,” Eric says, sucks in the air between them before kissing along Leland’s fresh shaved jaw. “Eight fucking years and I still love your taste.” He lavs a strip up to Leland’s ear and then kisses down his neck as his hand explores down muscles that have become muscle memory itself.

“Eat me alive, babe.”

The invite tastes like mint and pine, like sweat that’s seen stage lights and hours of rehearsals. It tastes like rain and salt water and dry skin beaten by ocean winds. He tastes like heaven and hell and every day he craves it like it’s the first and the last time.

Palm upturned in his own, Eric kisses it softly, lets it cup his cheek as he thrusts slowly. Leland wraps around him, presses their bare bodies together with his body that's like puddy. Flexible and strong after three decades of ballet training, he holds himself, controls Eric with every beautiful movement below him. And when Eric pleases him just right, he moans loud enough that the curtains and rugs in their studio do nothing to dampen the noise. Leland’s weeping by the time they finish, shaking and overstimulated, spent and empty and taken. Eric kisses away his tears and apologizes because he always does. He doesn’t ever want to make Leland cry.

Leland kisses him back and tells him he is stupid. He absolutely loves being fucked by Eric. The lamp on the bedside table casts a soft amber glow, makes his red cheeks dark like wine when he says it. He motions a piece of hair from Eric’s brow, places a kiss on his forehead before touching noses to his. “I love you so much, Erwin.”

Eric blinks, tenses, and pushes himself away into the plush stack of pillows. “What did you say?”

Leland huffs a laugh and climbs into the empty space Eric created. “What?” Another groggy kiss, this time below Eric’s left eye. “I just told you that I love you. Don’t be greedy.”

Eric remains tense until Leland’s hand comes up to softly pet his chest. Over time, he relaxes a little and closes his eyes, pulling Leland into his body. Leland settles comfortably at Eric’s right side, radiates warmth that makes them both clammy after a few minutes. He purrs asleep, nuzzling into Eric’s chest every time a snore grows too loud. His weight makes Eric’s right arm grow numb, and he works his fingers against Leland’s back lazily to work them to a present tingle.

It’s been an hour and sleep doesn’t find him. Eric is the kind of man that fusses with a brain that always talks. Hard work came with little rest, and insomnia is a lifelong battle. And he has a name that keeps repeating in his head that is out of place. That doesn’t belong here.

With gentle care, he slinks out of bed and puts on a pair of sleep pants and slippers. The apartment is one room, but large enough to house four. He walks toward the designated space for their office, a space carved out by large sturdy bookshelves and a slated driftwood floor partition. He sits at his office chair and opens the clamshell of his laptop. It boots up slowly, and he rests his elbow on the desk with his forehead in his palm.

The name.

It sounded so familiar--so comfortable off Leland’s lips as if the syllables had been uttered millions of times before. A conviction that sounded like a promise, he tries to think back if he had ever heard his name uttered under such pretenses. With such vindication. With such love.

He struggles to recreate it--even when he remembers their vows, when he remembers their wedding night. He sighs out of his nose. The computer finishes booting, and Eric tries to calm the anger that floats along a head too heavy with liquor. Jealousy is ugly, and he knows it can’t be true. Leland isn’t seeing someone else.

“Fuck.”

Eric gets up and goes to the bookshelf, removes a bottle of whiskey and pours it into a fresh tumbler. He swallows it down before pouring another one. He looks at his computer belligerently before walking back to it and sitting heavily into his chair. Placing the glass down, he opens a web browser and types in several searches for the name.

A town in New York. A few businesses of various kinds. A WWII field marshal. He searches his ancestry tree he compiled a few years ago with his father and doesn’t find the name there anywhere. He looks back at a few years of school rosters to see if he had a student with the name. Racks his brain to try to remember if he went to grad school with one.

But it feels familiar to him too, like the name had been uttered a million times before from his own lips, even though he is certain he had never heard it before. “Like deja vu,” he says aloud. He takes another sip, lowers his voice even more, “That’s what it is.”

He looks over at Leland’s desk, a drafting table with his laptop on it. Above it is a small blackboard with a schedule of planned projects that had been untouched since they moved to downtown Providence three years ago. He frowns. There was just never any time between Leland’s practices and Eric’s class schedules to mark any of them off. His eyes wander to the small shelf next to the board, a collection of some of Leland’s favorite teas arranged neatly by height and container color--the word ‘Smith’ emblazoned across their fronts.

Eric gasps in air so sharply it hurts his chest. He scrambles at his desk for his moleskin and pen, knocking over a stack of papers and his pen cup, flips it open to the next available page and scribbles down the name, as if remembering was a flame fluttering in a drafty room. Just one huff and it would be extinguished.

Erwin slaps the moleskin shut, works his mouth opened and closed but no words come out. Breathing comes in short gasps until the alcohol relaxes his lungs open. He rests his elbow back on his desk and drinks for as long as it takes the the sun to rise and paint his apartment in fields of vibrant red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Minxie for reading this through for me. :)!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and any comments are, of course, very much appreciated.


	2. The Photo

The last few weeks before finals are always the busiest. There are so many meetings scheduled with students that are preparing for their exams or trying to wrap their head around next semester, Eric doesn’t make it home in time for dinner. It’s 9PM when he steps into the apartment, his stomach hollow and growling as he sniffs in the meal that had been prepared hours before.

“Dinner’s in the microwave, babe.” Leland says from their living room. The television projects 48” of some sweaty guy’s face over a stove full of pots while Leland sits on the plush rug spread eagle, his nose buried into his knee as he stretches. “Sorry it’s nothing fancy.”

Eric walks into the kitchen after removing his blazer and depositing his briefcase at the door. He opens the microwave to see a plate of green beans, lightly seasoned chicken breast, and brown rice. He closes the door and sets it to heat up for two minutes. He turns toward the kitchen island and leans one hand on it while he loosens the tie around his neck. “How was your day?” He rolls up his sleeves and turns on the faucet to start cleaning the dishes.

Leland raises both arms above his head, the muscles of his bareback creating deep cleaving shadows in his skin. Several bones in his back crack as he finishes his stretches. He folds his legs in to his chest before rolling onto his feet and standing up. He walks toward the kitchen, sleep pants hugging his hips, the cuffs of them swallowing his feet. “Oi, I can do that.”

Eric shakes his head and smiles up at him. “You cooked. You know the rules.” The microwave beeps three times but he keeps his focus on the pan in the sink. “How was your day?”

“I got home pretty late. Still dealing with Vanessa being a fuckin’ princess. We’re all getting irritated with her. You’d think she was the star of the production.”

Eric shakes his head. “Acting like a prima?”

Leland snorts. “She’s lucky she even has a seat. These kids.” He finds Eric’s eyes and smiles. “Was I ever like this?”

Eric’s eyebrows furrow and his eyes shy away. “I don’t believe so, darling.” He looks up with a smile. “Or rather, I’m not sure you ever stopped.”

Leland leans over the island and splashes a hand full of water across the front of Eric’s dress shirt. “Asshole.”

“Hey!”

His husband rounds the island and slaps an open hand across Eric’s ass, his other one reaching over to the microwave to pop it open. He turns to grab the plate and spins to place it on the counter next to Eric. Sliding up behind him, he presses his chest to Eric’s back, his forehead falling between shoulder blades. “Eat, dumbass. I could hear your stomach when you walked in.”

Eric chuckles deep, moves his ass against Leland’s midsection, and turns off the tap. “Fine, fine.” He dries his hands off on the towel looped through the cabinet handle and turns around to lean against the sink. Leland moves across him fluidly in the transition, lands heavily into Eric’s arms and squeezes tightly. “I love you,” Eric says into soft, damp hair.

“I love you too, ‘Ric.”

The breath deflates from Eric’s chest and he nods once, placing a kiss on the crown of Leland’s head. His eyes sweep up to the refrigerator and pass across a photo of them in front of the Eiffel Tower on their honeymoon. Leland is on his tiptoes, leaning heavily into Eric’s side, one arm raised above his head and his hand shaped into a ‘C’. Eric mirrored his stance. Their hands connect to create a heart over the tip of the tower. They’re both smiling, only a couple of years younger but looking so different.

He blinks.

Very different.

Eric squints, studies the picture as if its the first time he’s seen it. His hair is longer than he’s ever worn it, straight and tight against his forehead. His expression is stoic, flat, expressionless. It looks haunted and distant, as if the moment was a culmination of nightmares in the daylight. A hot wave chases from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, and he braces himself heavier into the kitchen counter.

He blinks a few times and the face becomes familiar--hair pulled back and a grin so wide that he remembers it accompanied a laugh. A joyous day during one of the most beautiful times of his life. His fingers dig into Leland’s skin before relaxing and massaging against muscle.

“You ok?” Leland looks up, kisses Eric’s jaw before stepping back.

Eric runs a hand down his face, keeps his eyes on the fridge for a moment longer before looking down at Leland. “I think… I would like some dessert before dinner, if that is all right.”

Leland raises an eyebrow but agrees eagerly. Eric lifts Leland onto the counter, pulls his sleep pants down, revealing with no surprise that his husband has gone commando in their own home. Leland complains with no furocity about the cold, catches his weight with shaking arms as Eric works him to quick arousal. He comes, hands fisted in Eric’s hair, heels kicking against the mahogany cabinets, mouth gasping heavily for air and eyes rolled in the back of their sockets. Eric stands up, kisses him so deeply that Leland nearly melts like an ice cube in his heated grasp. Weakly, he asks Eric to carry him to bed, and as always, Eric complies. With a cold nose nuzzled deep into Eric’s neck, he’s laid into bed with the covers drawn. Eric runs a hand along Leland’s cheek and leans down to kiss his forehead.

Leland catches his wrist before he leaves. With his eyes still closed he mutters, “Make sure you eat your food.”

Eric smiles, leaves a kiss on his temple and gently removes his wrist. “Of course.”

Finding himself in the living room with a glass of red wine and a plate of food that has grown cold again, Eric eats alone with the television on mute. The volume is too much. There’s just so much chatter and noise. He just wants to drown it all out.

He gets half way through his chicken breast before he focuses solely on finishing his wine. He had the foresight to bring the bottle with him and refills it, his limbs feeling short of a pile of cooked noodles after he finishes the next glass. He rests his head in his hand and sighs heavily. Looking at the clock, he shakes it, remembering the piles of papers in his briefcase he still needs to grade despite it being midnight.

Eric stands up, grasps the back of the couch as he steadies his balance, his feet shuffling heavily across the wood floor. He braces himself against the wall, lets his eyes swirl and focus before trying to continue to the kitchen. He succeeds because he’s practiced, because he’s had years to cope with insomnia, and years of buzzing thoughts that only grew quiet with enough haziness. It had gotten better, for a few years, but ever since the name...

The Name.

Eric thinks too much, but it’s always with an understanding that it’s his own mind to blame. Since The Name, when his voice goes quiet, he begins to think differently. Somehow--oddly--he begins to resonate with The Name. Feels like, for some reason, he’s done this before, though he is not sure what “this” is. 

He manages to make it to the glassware cabinet and opens it. He pulls down a tall crystal glass and drags his feet to the fridge. Pressing the glass to the filtered water tab, the light under the tap switches on and starts to fill the container. He presses his forehead to the steel door of the fridge, the coolness of it sedating the heat across his brow. He sighs and closes his eyes.

“Like deja vu.” A voice says. Strong. Clear. Right in Eric’s ear.

Eric’s eyes shoot open. His head snaps back and he looks all around before finally resting on the photo. And it’s the same, it’s the same as before, just like before with the hair and the displeasure and the discomfort, and the photo is dark and his skin is red and he feels the chill burn through his body again so sharply it makes him yelp, because the photo is the same, and it doesn’t look like him, but maybe it’s....

With a jump, Erwin scoots away from the fridge, the edge of the glass snagging the nozzle of the tap and wrenching it from his hand and smashing against the floor. Cold water splashes onto his socked feet and up his pant leg. Glass splinters across the dark kitchen floor, and he grasps a hold of the fridge door as if it will ground and protect him.

“Hey!” Leland rounds the corner into the kitchen having woken from the disturbance.

“Stop!” Erwin booms. “Don’t move.”

Leland puts his hand on the wall. “What?”

Erwin huffs in a large gasp of air, as if breathing in for the first time in a long time. The steadiness returns to his hands and his back goes rigid and straight. He looks into the direction of where Leland is standing, seeing only a minute amount of features in the darkness of the room. He lowers his voice before speaking. “There’s glass.”

“Oh,” Leland says quietly. He pats his hand on the wall before finding the light switch and turning it on. They both shrink back as their eyes adjust. “You ok, though?”

“Yes,” Erwin says. “I just do not want you to hurt yourself.”

Leland’s face scrunches as he looks his husband up and down. “You really ok, Erwin?”

“Stop calling me that!” Eric shouts. His fist balls and smashes into to the fridge door.

“Hey!” Leland takes two steps forward. “What the fuck, Eric? You’re gonna ruin the--”

“I said stop!”

Leland stops in his spot but a fury replaces his features. “You fuckin’ shout at me…”

Eric presses his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose and he breathes in a breath that turns into a groan. “Just get the damn broom, Lee!” He shakes his head once. “Christ.”

Leland stares at him, mouth thin and brows tight. “Fine. Gimme a couple of minutes.”

Eric turns to look at the photo. It’s as it should be, no unfamiliarities to be had. Just himself and Leland, two years younger. Happy. In love. He rips it off the fridge, the magnet that held it down flinging off toward the sink, and whips it across the room. It takes everything for him to stay up right, to keep composed. He’s dealt with this before. He can do it again.

“Here.” Leland says when he returns. He walks into the kitchen, his feet now covered in soled slippers, and he drops a near identical pair at Eric’s feet. “I’ll sweep up.”

“No, I will.” Eric reaches for the broom, but Leland moves it away.

“Eric,” Leland’s voice is firm and sharp. “I am not having this conversation tonight. Go to bed.” The command is venomous and impatient. One that Eric has heard more times than he cares to count on the nights that his brain won’t stop working and he soils one too many glasses to get it to bend to his will.

Eric moves to the edge of the kitchen and watches Leland clean up a little before dejectedly making it way back to their bed. He disrobes down to his boxer briefs and slides under the covers. Leland returns about a half hour later, coming up and snuggling up behind him, wrapping a strong arm around his waist and pulling him close. “I’m sorry,” Eric says. It feels familiar. Like deja vu.

Leland shakes his head against Eric’s back and says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this story is already getting away from me...


	3. The Shadows

Leland never knew his father, so when they get the chance they go to Eric's parents house for Father's Day. Eric grew up in the Mohawk Valley, an area of Central New York that has suffered once the manufacturing jobs dried up. Husks of factories litter the side of the highway, and main streets limp along and struggle under the pressure of big box chains and internet shopping. But in the outskirts of Utica, the Williams remain resilient. 

Eric pulls into the two car driveway and parks next to the blue 2008 Prius with an old 2012 Obama for President and Coexist sticker on the bumper. Getting out, they stretch and grab their bags from the back and quickly kiss before going up the short steps up the side entrance. Ringing the doorbell, they only wait a moment before a woman comes to the door, equipped and ready with a smile. “Hello hello!” She shouts through the glass storm door. It creaks open as she ushers the two men in, her short blonde hair bobbing as she nods. “I’m so glad you both made it here safe!” She eagerly waits for Eric to deposit his things before launching herself into a big hug. “How long was the drive?”

Leland drops his things on top of Eric's. “About six hours?” He answers, taking his turn to give Mrs. Williams a hug, his stature being swallowed by a family of above average heights.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Eric says.

“You boys hungry?” She asks when she detaches from Leland.

“I could go for something,” Eric says. He raises an eyebrow at Leland, knowing he had only eaten an apple before they left this morning. 

“I'm ok,” Leland says, “but I'll take some tea.”

The three of them sit at the dining table and catch up. Things are going swimmingly for them at the moment. Mr. Williams’ retirement was approved for 2020, and they're considering making the move to Florida when it's all said and done. The garden has already grown them enough tomatoes to last them until the apocalypse, and they had to put some new shingles on the roof a month ago after the rough winter they had. Eric finishes eating his sandwich as Leland takes the time to catch her up on their lives, only to be stopped short when Mr. Williams joins them a half hour later.

“Good of you to join us, Herschel.” Mrs. Williams says.

Herschel groans as he takes a seat. For a man pushing seventy, his hairline remains full even though most of the dark blond has been replaced with grey. He scratches at his full, well kept beard and adjusts his round skepticals before talking. “I have to let momma hen take care of the little ones first. Right, Grace?” He reaches over the center of the table to grab piece of Leland’s homemade coffee cake that he had brought. He takes a messy bite before continuing. “Did you hear about what they plan to do to revitalize downtown? Talk about a marketing disaster.”

“No, but I’m interested to hear,” Eric smiles, receiving a soft glare from Leland for taking two pieces of cake instead of one. Under the table, he reaches for Leland’s hand and gives it a squeeze, which does enough to relax his husband to drink down a few sips of tea.

Halfway through the discussion of crowdsourcing apps and multi-thousand dollar galas that “will definitely get people excited about living in Utica again”, Leland leaves with Grace to start cooking dinner. Herschel and Eric migrate to Herschel’s office, a room that at one time had been Eric’s and has since turned into a mancave of sorts--though an untypical one. Leisure furniture and entertainment meet with seem-busting bookshelves. Maps of countries that have since changed borders sit pinned to the walls, and a giant peace flag, like the ones used in protest for Vietnam, drapes behind the television in remembrance of his father's eldest brother that never returned.

Eric takes a seat at the recliner, pops the leg rest up and crosses one leg over the other. Herschel takes a seat at the small couch and leans over to the coffee table. He opens a tin that sits in the center and sets out some paper, a dime bag, and a few filters. “How are things with you?” Herschel asks.

“Same old, same old. I’m working on figuring out how to change up the curriculum a bit this year to keep us current, and then we have a week of seminars coming up.”

“The work never ends,” Herschel says, sealing the blunt and passing it to Eric. Eric kicks down the leg rest and leans forward to take it and the lighter. “And things with Leland?”

Eric lights the end of the blunt and breathes in a couple of short puffs before holding it tight in his lungs. He coughs into his fist as he passes the lighter back to his father. “His next production starts up in a couple of weeks. He’s nervous about it. It’s his first character role in several years, and he’s a lead.”

“I’m sure he’ll do great.” 

Eric takes another lung full and passes the blunt to Herschel. He lets it out after a few seconds, the burning taste lingering unsatisfactory in his mouth. He sits back, rubbing a hand on his chest and nods. “Of course. I’m proud of him. It was hard for him to make this step. You and mom should come out and see it.”

Herschel breathes out a plume of smoke and nods. “We could use a vacation.”

Eric laughs. “I wasn’t offering for you to stay the week.”

“Son, I wouldn’t want to.” Herschel hacks a laugh into his hand, “I need private time with your mother.”

Eric rolls his eyes and groans, “You’re disgusting.”

“Tell me that again when you’re my age.”

Dinner’s called and Herschel and Eric reunite with Leland and Grace as they’re setting the table. A new bottle of wine is opened and poured evenly between three glasses, the remaining being filled with water. They begin eating when everybody’s plate is sat down and conversation ebbs between weather, the neighbors, and whatever insane thing the republican party is supporting this week. Eric leans closer to Leland as the weed starts to take effect, and he gently rests a hand on Leland's wrist and points at his still nearly full plate. Leland elbows him and shakes his head.

When they’re done, Eric gathers the dishes and brings them into the kitchen to help clean up with Leland. He takes his place at the sink and cleans what Leland hands him. “How are you doing?” Eric says. He looks up at Leland through the window above the sink and watches as he comes back with three empty wine glasses.

“I’m ok.”

“You aren’t eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Eric focuses on the dishes with a bit of agitation. “You have to--”

“Don’t lecture me,” he sets the wine glasses on the counter and glares at Eric through the window reflection. “Especially when you aren’t any fuckin’ better.” He turns and walks away, but something remains in the reflection--a foggy outline of where Leland had been. Eric blinks and it disappears.

“You know I smoke every time I come home.” 

Leland comes back, shaking his head. He drops a fist full of silverware into the sink and lays a hand heavily on the counter. He looks up at Eric, eyes narrow and mouth thin. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Eric looks back up at the window and sees the foggy outline again. He startles and takes a step back from the sink, his hands tight on the lip of the counter.

“Eric?”

The fog remains even after he blinks, and he takes in a deep breath before looking back down and working on the dishes. “I know.” He shakes his head and the fog seems to cover his brain like moss. “I told you I’d stop.”

Leland looks him up and down before wrapping an arm around his waist. “You’re doing well.”

“And you are too.”

Leland rubs one circle on Eric’s back before getting on his tiptoes and pressing his nose into Eric’s cheek. “Kiss me.”

Eric turns his head and gives him a peck and a gentle smile. “Go preoccupy my mother.”

Leland smiles back, kissing one more time before nodding. “You say that like it’s a chore.”

Eric looks up one last time at the window and sees only his own reflection. Shaking his head, he finishes the dishes and meets his father back in the office. Herschel offers him a beer, but he declines. They smoke another blunt, his father degrading into the weird part of his history knowledge--swearing up and down about ancient astronauts and how the pyramids were built to line up exactly to certain stars. “It just wasn’t possible,” he says, “Man didn’t have the type of resources and knowledge to advance society as quickly as they did.” He holds his hands up, a beer bottle held in one hand, “Aliens, Eric.”

And years of talking about these ludicrous ideas has started to actually seed some belief in Eric. “Aliens,” he replies.

After some time, Herschel wishes Eric good night. Eric stays alone in the room, smoking. He turns the TV on to the History Channel and slumps deep into the chair. He drifts in and out of consciousness, jolting awake only to finish his lone task of smoking. His abstinence from alcohol for the past month has been too much. It helps him deal with The Name.

He opens his eyes and lazily moves them across the room. The lamp on the computer desk points at the wall and warms the light, casting tall, wide shadows. They stretch up and melt over the corners of the ceiling. Looming. They reach for him with little hands that grab. 

He blinks. 

And the shadows remain. 

He feels their warmth, their weight, and they are heavy. His mouth falls open and his eyes feel dry and he tries to focus but it’s so hard. The shadows drip from the ceiling and melt around him. Heavy and warm, the pressure buries him into the chair, and it presses on his chest with a feeling of guilt--dragging him so deep to the ocean floor until he startles awake gasping for breath even though he swore he hadn’t been asleep at all.

“Hey, it’s time for bed, Eric.”

Wild eyed, Erwin looks around and he feels a gentle hand on his cheek that pulls him back. “The horses.”

“What?”

“They need to rest.”

“Eric…”

“The fog...” It surrounds him. The sharpness of Leland’s features--his jaw, his nose, his lips--they are fuzzy and blurry and it frustrates Erwin that he looks so damn familiar. That the warmth of his fingers seems to dissolve the panic that sticks to his body like tar. “We need to return to the Walls.” Leland searches his face, and Erwin puts his hand on Leland’s to keep it there. “Green. Red. Black.”

Leland frees his hand and takes the spent blunt from Erwin’s fingers. “Come on.” He grabs Erwin’s wrist and pulls him out of the chair. Leland’s face comes in and out of focus. The shadows try to engulf him but he’s never been the kind for darkness.

Erwin steadies himself against the hallway walls, pausing when the shadows go deadweight on his back and threaten to bring him to his knees. Leland guides him to the guest room, forces him to drink some water, and wraps his arms around Erwin when he practically curls up on top of Leland.

“Leave the light on.” He stares at the shadows and all their hands as they tug at the bedsheets, but they can’t reach him with Leland here. He buries his face into Leland’s chest.

Leland kisses the top of Erwin’s head and rests his head against the headboard and sighs.   
  



	4. The Beanstalk

“Do you remember anything?”

Erwin slowly opens his eyes, lets the words filter through his brain like the sun waking behind the curtains. Things move in slow motion; he watches dust particles float before his vision, wayward and fluttering. He breathes in and closes his eyes again. He remembers the smell of fresh tea and musky sweat. The creaking of worn leather and the smell of burning wax. Ink on paper, spent potpourri. The rarity of warm, sticky, slick honey on equally rare lips.

“You smoked too much, Eric.” Leland says. He shifts next to Eric and pulls the covers from his shoulder. “You drank and you smoked.”

Eric buries his face into his pillow and groans. Everything smells like fresh laundry and aerosol roses. He licks his lips to find the taste of ash. “What?”

“Last night, dumbass. Do you remember anything?”

Eric peeks an eye open and looks around the room. The light from the window is warm, and knowing Leland, it’s probably about five in the morning. “Tired.”

“Eric,” Leland pulls the covers off completely and shoves his shoulder. “Get up. We’re going for a walk.”

The first pot of coffee hasn’t even started brewing yet, but Eric and Leland are gone from the Williams’, decked out in lightweight workout clothes. They stretch in the driveway before trotting down a few blocks and turning down a dead end street. Slowing to a walk, Leland reaches for Eric’s hand and takes it, squeezing it tightly and pulling him back. “You scared me.”

Eric stops and looks down at Leland. “What?”

“Last night. You scared me.”

“I didn’t--”

“You can talk to me. That’s what this is all about.” He holds up his left hand and fingers the black titanium wedding band with his thumb. “If something is--”

“I’m fine,” Eric says, taking a step away before being pulled back.

“Eric!” Leland tugs his hand, and despite his size, he is incredibly strong. He pulls Eric toward the curb and holds him there with two hands on either arm. “You haven’t been sleeping well for awhile. Is work stressing you out? Is there something else? Did I--”

“Lee, darling, I’m fine.” Eric smiles, but he feels his brows deceiving him. “I promise.”

Leland looks at him, begs him with his eyes to speak. “Eric…”

Eric brings his hands up and cups Leland’s face, and he leans down and kisses his forehead before kissing him on the lips. “I shouldn’t have smoked so much. You’re right. I was stressed out, and as always, it didn’t help anything.” He feels a relief for the daylight that keeps the shadows at bay when he says it. “Thank you for being concerned.”

“I wish you would talk to me first.” Leland’s eyes fall to Eric’s chest.

“You need to talk to me too.” Eric lets his hands fall, and he reaches for Leland’s left and grasps it tightly as they continue their walk. “Are you nervous?”

Leland nods.

“From what I’ve seen, you’re going to do wonderful.”

“Rehearsal is one thing,” Leland says softly. “What if I fuck up?” He squeezes Eric’s hand.

“You can’t let the fear of ‘what ifs’ consume you. You’re one of the strongest and well trained performers in the area. This program is perfect for you.” He smiles, remembering the first time he saw Leland dance. “And you’ve played in  _ Giselle _ before.”

“I’m worried about Patricia.”

“Trust her like she trusts you, Lee. You’ve been dancing together for half a decade.” He smiles down at Leland, moves his hand up and draws him in by the shoulder. “You’re both going to be beautiful.”

They make it back to the house after another half hour around the block, hearts lighter and hands still latched. They shower together in the guest bathroom out of convenience and go downstairs to prepare a quick and protein heavy breakfast for the family. The sun sits comfortably in blue skies, and they eat together on the small porch in the tiny backyard while watching the songbirds peck at the feeders. When they finish, they meet Grace inside and she drags the two of them to the basement to gush over the findings that she and Leland unearthed the day prior.

“We found your baby book,” Leland grins as he takes a seat on the concrete floor.

“Oh Christ,” Eric laughs a little as he takes a seat next to him.

“You were so cute!” Grace says, pulling a folding chair over and sitting it in front of a cardboard box that has seen better days. She takes a pair of reading glasses from her breast pocket and puts them on as she shuffles through the box. “Lee and I had a blast going through this yesterday.”

Leland puckers his lips and nods deeply. He sways away from Eric who tries to push him over.

“We can bring this upstairs, mom.” Eric says, pulling a fast one on Leland and dragging him down and into his lap, petting his hair as he focuses on what his mother is doing.

She shakes her head, “No, we were just going through and clearing stuff out. I didn’t know what you wanted to keep. In case you two…”

“Sounds like a plan,” Eric says, doing his best to avoid the discussion about grandchildren that would only leave her disappointed. Again. “What do we got?”

They sort through old report cards, Happy Meal toys, his Cub Scouts vest, and all four of his Debate Club trophies. The entirety of the first fifteen years of his life sits encapsulated in a couple of cardboard boxes, and at the end of it, they had little that they wanted to throw away. Leland laid in Eric’s lap the whole time, quipping and giggling at every embarrassing note from Eric’s past--right down to the love letter he had never sent his fifth grade crush.

“Seriously, why do I even still have this--” Eric starts.

“Hold on,” Leland says. He sits tall on his knees and digs into the last box and pulls out a crumpled mass of craft supplies. It’s all green--pipe cleaners, construction paper, glitter--yellowed at the edges where age has taken it. “What the heck is this?”

Eric takes the mess from Leland, a little harshly. “It’s a beanstalk.”

Leland tilts his head and chuckles. “Man, you’ve always sucked at art.”

Eric looks at him and gives him a crooked smile. “Yeah.” He puts the beanstalk into the trash pile. He tries to compose his breathing and the heat that seems to seize through his body. The weight falls on him like the shadows, and he wants to be in the light again. “We should probably be heading out, mom.” 

“Oh.” His mother sits back in her chair and removes her glasses. “I suppose you boys do have a long drive home, huh?” She struggles out of her chair with limbs that crack and pop. “Lee, be a dear and gather the trash?”

They return upstairs and help with some clean up before they go to their room and pack. Grace packs a reusable bag full of leftovers, fruit, and homemade preserved vegetables from the garden. Grace yells for Herschel three times before he shows up to say good-bye. He gives Leland and Eric a firm handshake that turns into a warm hug, and he tells them to not be strangers--a sentiment that is returned back to them.

Traffic is bad through Massachusetts, but they make it home before 10PM. Leland drops their things at the entryway and refuses to clean anything until morning. He makes his way to their bed and flops onto it face down, his legs dangling over the edge, his toes barely touching the floor.

The car ride was quiet, and Eric found it hard to focus. His thoughts had grown intrusive, nasty, mean. Anger settles in his stomach, and he thinks of the things he had done, the things he could have done, the person he could have been, the person he might be. He turns on the bedside lamp to chase a shadow away.

“Lee.” Eric says softly.

“What’s up?” Leland says into the comforter.

“I want a drink.”

Leland’s head perks up and he gets up on his elbows to look at Eric’s back. “Talk to me.” Leland pulls Eric into bed, all clothed, and buries them both under piles of blankets, nuzzling a cold nose into Eric’s throat.

“What are you afraid of?” Eric says, quietly.

“That’s a weird question,” Leland says.

Eric huffs a laugh. “Yes, I suppose. But like, what irrational fear do you have?”

“All my fears are pretty rational I think.”

“Like heights,” Eric says.

“Needles.”

“The ocean.”

“That one is maybe a little irrational,” Leland kisses the soft part of Erwin’s neck. “Given where we live.”

Eric grumbles a laugh, running a hand up and down Leland’s arm. “I guess those are all pretty rational.” He scratches his fingernails against bare skin. “Don’t laugh at me when I say this.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Eric squeezes Leland’s arm and kisses the top of his head. “I played Jack in our elementary school’s play of  _ Jack and the Beanstalk _ ,” Eric says. “It was a stupid thing. I didn’t even want to do it.”

“Why did you?”

“I’ve told you I struggled to make friends. My dad thought it would help me ‘build character’.”

Leland nuzzles Eric, the smile clear on his voice. “You are a fuckin’ weirdo.”

“I guess so--I was hoping to be the cow.” They both chuckle before Leland urges him on with another kiss. “I didn’t like being in front of people. And I was…” Eric trails.

“What?”

Eric draws his hand down his face and shakes his head. “I was terrified of the giant. They made this big head out of papier mache, but us kids made it so it was fucking hideous.” He laughs. “All lumpy and painted like its flesh was falling from its bones.”

“Gross.”

“I was fine until the night of the recital. I don’t remember much, but…” Eric sits up slightly, takes his free hand and makes it into a claw. With a deep voice he booms: “Fee-fi-fo-fum! I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!” Eric laughs softly, sighs, and drops his hand. “I started crying right on stage in front of my entire class.”

“Babe…”

“It’s irrational.”

Leland snuggles closer, draping a leg over Eric’s. “What is?”

“My fear of giants.” Eric says softly. “I haven’t thought about that in years, but that beanstalk… Sorry, it just…”

“We were all scared of stupid shit as kids. I was terrified of gorillas for the longest time.” Leland says. He sighs, his limbs going limp on Eric. “For what it’s worth, I would have saved you.”

“Hm?”

“I woulda taken down the giant for you. Then I woulda cut down the beanstalk. Then we’d have stew for weeks in our stupid little cabin with a damn cow that can’t make milk.”

Eric hums, the tension in his neck loosening as he sinks into the bed. “Would we have a happy ending?”

Leland nods, “As happy as anyone can get.”

“That would be nice.”

Their breathing slows and fall in time. Eric floats into sleep, but it remains somewhere between being awake. He’s aware of Leland’s warmth, the twitch of his muscles as he falls deeper into slumber, the air that passes through parted lips. He’s aware of the shadows behind his eyelids, the ones that try to rip them open and pour their fear into his skull. He swings, tangled in wire above the grove of reality in this world of fantasy, and the shadows pull apart one by one, like a flower opening on a beanstalk, to reveal a half eaten man that looks like him. Face stoic, flat, expressionless. Eyes full of nightmares but empty with remorse.

Erwin remains paralyzed, suspended in space, until their alarm rings off and he awakes again in a body he can’t control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm being kinda quiet in terms of replying to comments. I'm actually really afraid of spoilers, so I'm trying to keep quiet. But your comments and enthusiasm gives me life, and if you have time to leave one, I am adding you to my alter that i pray to every night (ok I don't have that but just pretend I do).


	5. The Dancer

Eric almost never attends opening night, but _Giselle_ is special.

Eric sits ready to leave at his desk, bespoke blue suit and silken red tie adorned, absently fingering the edge of the moleskin. He’s written notes in it over the past couple of months--little things that come to mind, things that feel like memories but are too fantastical to be truth. He writes them down because maybe in his old age he is getting a second wind, and with it, a profound sense of creativity.

He flips the pages open and runs a palm down the spine. He uncaps his pen and hovers it over the paper, hesitating strokes that never quite hit paper. Licking his lips, he finds the courage to write down the thoughts that had taken seed in the previous weeks.

>   ** _I had never been to the ballet in my life. We had been dating a few weeks when he invited me to see him perform the first time._**
> 
> **_Despite playing Giselle, I knew he was different than the other dancers._ **
> 
> **_He was skilled and graceful, imbued in talent that betrayed humility through each movement. He didn’t have to speak in order to steal and break my heart that night._ **
> 
> **_I was mesmerized. I was in love._ **
> 
> **_He had driven me to a drunken dizziness for reasons I was never able to explain, but now--_ **

“I’m ready,” Leland stands at the doorway of the office, finger nervously playing at the rough driftwood. Eric raises his head to meet Leland’s gaze, and he closes the journal. “What were you writing?” Leland shifts and crosses his arms. “Scavenger hunt notes to remember where you kept your keys?”

Eric points his chin down and smiles with a low laugh. “My keys are in my pocket, dear.”

“Good. Drive my ass to the theater, then.”

It takes them longer to find parking than for them to drive to the arts district downtown. They park in a parking garage a couple of blocks away and get out of the car. Leland magnetizes to Eric’s side and grapples his hand, burying manicured nails so deep that it breaks the skin. “Leland?”

Leland squeezes hard enough that Eric’s knuckles crack. “I haven’t done this in so long, ‘Ric.”

“Last season was not so long ago.”

“I’m too old. And weak. What if I don’t look…” He trails off.

Eric nods in understanding and turns to face Leland. “What can I do support you right now?”

“They’re depending on me. What if I can’t--”

“How many hours have you spent on stage?” He chases Leland's eyes when they wander. “And you’ve been in six performances since we moved here. This is no different.”

“But I’m playing Albrecht.” He says it as if it’s obvious, as if Eric isn’t getting the fucking point. “That’s pretty fuckin’ different. Holy shit, Eric.”

“Lee.”

“I had to start from scratch! Twenty-five years of dancing before then, and now I’m finally doing what I should have been doing all along, but I’m stuck with…” He huffs while he takes his free hand and cards it through his hair. He grabs at the roots as his eyes grow wide. “I hate this. I fucking hate this.” He looks up at Eric. “What if I fuck it all up?”

“You’re going to do wonderful.”

“Fuck you; you don’t know that.” He grabs his hand back, moves it to shuffle through his dark hair alongside the other. “This isn’t right. None of this is right.” He paces once, drops his arms to his side and starts to move toward the stairwell that leads to the street.

Eric stares at him, tries to find the right words to say that won’t trigger a worse outcome. “What would you keep the same?”

Leland looks at him, eyebrows knit, scowl deep on his lips. He looks off toward the stairs, his jaw moving and his fingers flexing at his side. It feels like forever before he says anything, but it's barely been a minute. “Goddamn nothing,” he spits the words like rotten fruit onto the concrete. He shoves his hands into his jeans and shakes his head, rushing down the stairs without looking back.

It feels familiar. Like deja vu.

Alone, Eric goes a couple of blocks away and stops at a coffee shop to get a hot coffee--triple sugar, no cream. The summer heat is sticky and humid, and he finds a seat below the central air conditioner, the air flow strong and unsticking the pomade in his hair. He watches out the window and checks his wrist watch every five minutes--exactly. He catches a shadow shrink behind a lamp post, and he rests his head in his hand.

It frustrates him. Leland has never been one to hide his emotions, but he’s the kind that struggles to put them into words. Anger flares easily, and Eric is used to the smart lick of a choice set of words or a disruptively absent show of behavior. And it hurts him, but Leland always returns, quiet and able, licking wounds with simple, careful words that tends to heal. Like the time Leland came to his office, begged him to stay,  told him to let somebody else take care of the mess--he needed to stay. He had to stay. He even threatened: “I’ll break both your legs…” Eric whispers.

Eric sits with the words, speaks them again silently, until his eyes grow wide and the wind is seemingly knocked from him. He fumbles with his breast pocket and pulls out his moleskin and pen. He grabs the cap with his teeth and pulls it off to quickly scribble:

 

He reads the words. Once. Twice. Three times and again and again, and he screws his eyes shut, and he tries to go back. Where would they have said that? When would they have said that? He opens his eyes and looks out the window, startles a little when he sees the shadow next to the light post again, a humanoid smudge of a thing that lingers on the edge of his vision until he blinks it away. He grinds his teeth and looks back down at this notebook. His thumb rubs against the smooth paper until his hand balls into a fist. Slamming it down once, he grabs his coffee and chugs the rest down. Taking a deep breath, he draws a hand down his face and brings his pen down on a fresh page.

> _**Shadows and memories.** _
> 
> _**Ask dad.** _

Eric checks his watch for the first time in fifteen minutes and decides to walk to the theater a bit early. He waits outside, bums a cigarette from a passerby and taps it dead against the brick wall of the theater. He adjusts his suit jacket while shaking away another shadow and goes inside.

He waits, sitting in the left center of the second row, the show program bouncing in his hand against a nervous leg. Leland needed him and he didn’t provide, and tonight was one of the most important nights of his life. He rubs a finger and thumb against his brow and tries to shake away a shadowy hand from pulling him from his seat, but it’s getting more difficult to not bow completely to them.

The show starts and Leland comes to the stage. He makes eye contact to the left center of the second row only once. It melts away instantly, Eric sees it. All his fears, the ones he had been mulling over for weeks, drop from him like molting feather, and as the ballet goes on, Eric feels drunk on Leland like he did before. He’s strong, graceful, fluid. With his body, he tells the story of love, desire, guilt, and remorse. The applause is strong, the feedback overwhelming, and at the end of the performance, Leland catapults into Eric’s arms. He smells of sweat and pine and musk, and it feels like deja vu.

The ritual starts when they get home. Eric drops the bag of ice on the kitchen counter and takes his place gathering ingredients for dinner. Leland goes to the bathroom and grabs a bucket with water, the bag of ice, and takes both to the living room. The television turns on and Leland empties the ice into the water bucket and quickly hits the couch to soak sore and aching feet.

Eric grins as he prepares the meal for the night--pan fried cod, pesto, and green beans. They eat at the dining table, next to each other instead of across, and clean up the kitchen together before heading to bed.

Leland hits the bed first, and Eric comes in with hands that are hungry to touch. He starts from the bottom up--pressing hard thumbs into heels that are calloused and chapped, running fingers above tendons and cracking joints that beg for release. Leland groans and shifts on this stomach. Eric smiles, moving up Leland’s calves, his thighs, his lower back. And Leland gives him feedback in the form of quiet whimpering and ached groans. By the time he makes it to his shoulders, Leland has reversed himself. He wraps his arms around Eric’s neck, coaxes kisses from him that turn to need, and they end up warm, naked, and mindlessly impassioned like their first time.

Leland rides Eric slowly, arches over him and kisses him carefully with every roll of his hips. The drag drives Eric nearly to madness, and he grabs tightly to Leland’s ass, but he dares not to take control of this moment. This is Leland’s, and Eric is always pleased to give in to it. He nearly slips from Leland’s wetness, but Leland keeps control, thrusting his hips down, taking Eric completely, grinding himself shallowly on his husband. He sits back, braces his hands on Eric’s thighs and continues short, shallow thrusts that make him whimper behind his nose. “Oh god.” He gasps and screws his eyes shut. “Eric...”

“Lee,” Eric digs his fingers tighter into Leland, his own composure waning. “Come for me,” he begs.

Leland falls forward, his hand resting heavily on Eric’s right shoulder, dark bangs covering his face, teeth digging into his pink lips. He carefully raises one hand to touch himself, and the control is lost. “F… Fuck me.” Leland bows his forehead into Eric’s neck and raises himself just enough to let Eric fuck up into him. Eric takes it, loses delicate intimacy in lieu of a primal need for release. His arms come up, and he wraps them tightly around Leland, pressing their upper bodies together as his hips lift off the bed to reach Leland with a tempo that has them both breathing and gasping in time. Leland bites down on Eric’s collarbone as he shakes with orgasm, whining and moaning as he grinds hotly through full body convulsions, and Eric’s thrusts hiccup with his own release as Leland involuntarily clenches around him.

Eric runs his hand up through Leland’s damp undercut, and he grabs gentle hold of the longer hair near the crown of his head. He guides Leland up to him for a sleepy kiss, and Leland obliges, rolling his hips mindlessly on Eric’s spent cock as their mouths open against each other. He mutters confessions of love like whispers, his long lashes falling closed from exhaustion. He slumps off of Eric, breathing heavily but contently.

Eric waits a few moments before sitting up and tying off the condom and throwing it in the trash. He goes to the bathroom to wash off and brings back a damp washcloth for Leland to wipe down with. He climbs under the covers, naked but warm, and it only takes a few minutes for the soft sounds of his snoring to fill the bed.

Eric reads on his phone until the time reaches single digits. He delicately runs his fingers through Leland’s hair before turning off the screen and reaching for the light. Looking down at him, curled up at his side, hand pressed against his face and hair covering his eyes, Eric remembers. The feeling of burning muscles and tender bruises. The phantom pressure of straps along his thighs, and a voice dry and coarse like gravel. He remembers the relief of seeing stormy eyes, sullenly accompanied by bright red on the edge of an emerald green cloak. He remembers trust. He remembers love. He remembers having his heart stolen and broken all at once.

“He’s perfect,” the voice says for the first time in almost two months. Loud. Clear. Directly into Eric’s ear.

Eric doesn’t startle. He nods. He agrees. “He’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the continued support. it is much loved and appreciated. it's starting to pick up a little now, so i hope you're thirsty for more, babies.


	6. The In-Laws

Leland and Kailah return Thursday night from shopping at Providence Place. It’s been two years since Kailah visited, and even though they talk once a week, Leland’s face is painted with an exhaustion that can only be accredited to familial oversaturation. When they enter the apartment, Eric rushes to assist and pile their shopping bags onto the dining table. 

“Wow,” Eric says. He pokes a bag open and looks inside. “You two hauled in quite a load, huh?”

Eric’s eyes meet Leland’s, and he sees the discomfort saturated in them. Leland is frugal and has always been the kind to squirrel money away for the rainy day that never comes. This inheritance based shopping spree his mother dragged him on was definitely outside of any comfort-zone for Leland. He rolls his eyes, “Too much.”

“Those are for you, honey,” Kailah says, pointing at the bag Eric has pried open. 

Eric raises an eyebrow and pulls the lone box out of the bag. It’s a small black velveteen box, adorned with a gold logomark on top. He snaps the lid up, and he breathes in sharply. Inside are two small cufflinks, about an inch in diameter, with a circular piece of polished jade set inside 18 karat gold. He touches them with a thumb before dragging a knuckle against his collarbone to alleviate a phantom weight.

“They’re beautiful,” the voice says to Eric.

“Do you like them?” Kailah asks.

Leland leans and presses his forehead to Eric's arm. “They were so fucking expensive.”

Eric chuckles. He leans down and kisses Leland’s forehead. “They're beautiful,” he says.

“Figured they'd match your brown suit,” Leland adds, linking arms with Eric and kissing his bicep. “I thought maybe…”

“I can certainly wear it tomorrow,” The smile sticks just like the weight on his chest. “Thank you, Kailah.”

They play catch up in the living room despite Leland’s obvious exhaustion. Eric watches Kailah as she talks, her second glass of wine making her words come more loosely. She’s young, not even fifty, and despite the softness having left Leland’s face over the past four years, they look strikingly similar--something she frequently illustrates by tucking Leland’s hair behind his ear and saying the word “pretty” with an audible pain, knowing she can’t get away with saying it sober. 

“Do you remember,” she says, as if the old times were easier--more glamorous--because Leland was who she wanted him to be, “How many jobs I had to work to pay for your dance classes?” Kailah says, her back still straight even though the alcohol sags her face.

“A lot, mom.” Leland avoids another hair touch by sweeping it back entirely. “I know it wasn’t easy. I was there.”

“You were so good, honey. So good,” she shakes her head and presses her fingers to her eyes as if mourning her selflessness. “All the other moms gave me such a stink eye. The other girls knew you were good. Too damn good.” She chuckles to herself.

“He’s still very good, Kailah.” Eric says, firmly.

“I’m playing Albrecht, remember?” Leland adds, quietly. He shrinks against Eric.

“Amazingly so,” Eric squeezes Leland’s hand, and Leland digs his nails into Eric’s palm.

Kailah swirls her glass once and nods, her eyes dropping. She’s young and she tries to understand, but she grows quiet when she fails to process that she has a son--that she has always had a son. The silence drags too long, and Leland excuses himself for the night with Eric close behind. They get ready for bed in the bathroom, Eric unbuttoning his shirt as Leland brushes his teeth. “I’m sorry, Lee,” Eric says.

Leland shrugs, bends over the sink and spits out his toothpaste. “Just a couple more days,” he says, drying his hands on the hand towel. He leans into the mirror, pulls at his hair from the roots and growls before turning to go to bed.

Eric sits alone in his office until night threatens to turn to dawn, a mug of coffee still warm and sitting at his desk. He plays with the cufflinks in the warm glow of his desk lamp and rubs at his collarbone absently as he tries to excavate answers. The shadows crawl onto the desk as the minutes continue to pass, pulling at each individual finger until the cufflinks fall from his hand and onto his notebook. A shadow draws down the page like ink, and it coaxes him to pick up his pen and draw a half remembered thing.

The next afternoon Leland is away rehearsing, and Eric remains at home finishing plans for the semester that starts next month. The buzzer rings and he goes to and retrieves his parents from the parking lot--his mother bringing a surprising amount of things for a one night stay.

He entertains for a short time before dismissing himself back to his office. He insists they leave early without him, tells white lies to cover his annoyance, to which they eventually yield. Eric showers, gets distracted by soap suds that slowly melt down the side of shower tiles like morning fog in open fields. He finishes and dries himself, shaves, and dabs on cologne. He puts on his clothes methodically--beige wool suit, a dusty blue dress shirt, a blue paisley tie and pocket square. He styles and parts his wet hair, applying pomade effortlessly before realizing he’s styled it wrong--off centered and straight across his forehead. A shadow blinks away as he sweeps his hair back into the proper place. He feels something nagging him to put it back, like the weight on his chest that has yet to cease.

He thinks of The Name.

Erwin puts on his jade cufflinks, his wristwatch, and straightens out his jacket. He looks up at the mirror and stares at himself for a long time before finally recognizing the man looking back at him. He quirks a smile and adjusts his cufflinks. Darkness pools at the edges of his clothing, creeping down his skin, until Eric blinks again and sucks in a gasp that nearly sends him into the sink counter.

Eric meets with their parents, and they watch Leland perform. Kailah weeps into Eric’s jacket the whole performance, whimpering quietly about how proud she is. He rests his cheek against the top of her head and holds a hand on top of hers. They all meet up after the performance; Eric’s parents give Leland a bouquet of bellflowers, Leland’s mother weeps into the crook of his neck, and Eric does his best to squeeze the jitters out of him. Leland tries not to cry, but the edges of his eyes turn red and glassy, and Eric kisses the tears away with quiet words of congratulations.

“You guys, thank you.” Leland croaks, covering his face with a shaking hand.

They all return to the apartment, Leland and Eric initiating their ritual of high protein dinners and ice buckets while the parents sit in the living room over drinks and hors d’oeuvres before settling in for the night. Eric takes care of Leland in the bathroom before bed, acting as the release Leland needs him to be. Leland bites his fist, moans behind his nose as Eric fucks him hard and quick, Eric finishing against the small of Leland’s back as he loses composure to stand. Eric sits with him in bed, holds and kisses him until there’s nothing left but soft snoring. He slinks out and brews a pot of coffee and puts it in a large thermos that he brings to the office.

He doesn’t realize he’s been sitting in the office for two hours because the coffee is still warm. His father startles him to attention, looming in the doorway with shadows that don’t scatter. He whispers low about a sore back, a reasoning Eric returns in jest. Herschel takes a seat at Leland’s chair, legs spread, hands on his knees, and arms stick straight. He congratulates Leland, extends his pride to his son for finding a good man, before falling back into silence.

Eric musters the courage to ask the question from his journal. He turns on his desk lamp and offers a weary smile. “What was the worst trip you ever took?”

“Do you remember,” Herschel says, as if the old times were far off dreams that he struggles to remember with age, “The time we went to the city--”

“No no,” Eric shakes his head and laughs. “Not the time mom threw up in the subway--”

“It wasn’t just that!” He leans his head down, trying to keep his voice down, “Do you remember the taxi driver? Fuck, I was about to pull him out of his seat and drive us ourselves. He was going to kill us!”

Eric tries to erase his smile. “I’m talking about--”

“And if you didn’t have to piss every five minutes. Don’t ever bring your kids to the city at that age, ok?”

“Dad.” Eric cricks his neck and sighs in sleepy irritation. “Have you ever… Hallucinated?”

Herschel’s face falls flat, and he sets his back against the chair. He nods. “Yeah.”

“What did you see?”

Herschel licks his lips a few times, and he appears to struggle with the words. “Things that I never wanted to see again.”

Eric looks down at his desk and nods.

“They didn’t have research on some of the drugs back then like we do now. We just took whatever we could back then.”

Eric scratches the oak surface of his desk, catches a fingernail in a wood grain. He swallows and tries again. “What did you see?”

“Have you ever remembered things that weren’t yours?” Herschel says.

“Like false memories?” Eric says.

“False memories?” the voice says to Eric.

Herschel strokes his beard. “Or at least I swore they were memories. My buddy told me I was screaming and clawing at myself. Shouting that I was on fire--that I wanted them to put my entrails back into my body.” Herschel breathes in deep. “I swore it was real.”

Eric stares at his father.

“The human brain is fascinating,” Herschel leans forward, tents his hands between his legs. “As a kid, your body grows faster than your mind.” His head twitches to the side. “Kids create monsters that live under their beds--but are they manifestations of their imagination or are they real? Children are just more perceptive to the world than we are.” He clicks his tongue. “We do drugs so we can get back to that, don’t we?”

Eric shrugs. “I guess.”

“We let the world corrupt our imagination with mortality,” Herschel sits up and waves his hands to his side. “If some memories are false, if imagination is fake, who’s to say what memories are real? If your mind is open, who knows where each of our individual experiences end, right? Who’s to say that I’m not continuing this life from one in the past?” He shakes his head with a grin. “Maybe, as I’ve aged and let this damn aching back take over, I’ve replaced real memories with fake ones and vice versa.” He leans forward in hesitation to stand up. “For all I know, I had it all figured out when I was two years old and still shitting in a diaper.”

Eric chuckles. “We were all born geniuses that couldn’t talk.”

Herschel points at Eric with a stern nod and an amused smile. “Life’s greatest irony.” He rises to his feet with a groan, stretching his back out before shuffling toward Eric and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Get some rest. Late nights have never been kind to you.” 

Eric nods. “Thanks. You too.”

Eric doesn’t go to bed; he sits with his coffee--bitter and black--and he smacks his lips in discontent. “Is that what you are?” He drinks down the last of his coffee, exhaustion having taken hold days ago, but the heavier his eyelids get, the stronger The Name becomes. “An old memory?”

It’s 5am, and the voice doesn’t respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my roommate and ellswritesthings for betaing this for me. also thanks to commander bae for dressing eric for me and for just generally being supportive. <3
> 
> i edited this chapter so many times--like straight up almost rewrote twice. i never do that. lol but i'm very happy with it. lemme know your thoughts as always! <333


	7. The Affair

“So, how did you two meet?”

Leland and Eric both offer a cordial smile to Patricia’s new boyfriend, Owen. “It’s a long story,” Leland says.

Patricia looks at Owen and shrugs, knowing the story after too many years of friendship. “It’s true.” She says, taking a sip of her white wine.

“It was a very long time ago,” Eric says.

“Eight years,” Leland adds.

“Married for two,” Eric chimes in with a big smile.

Owen nods and rubs his hand against Patricia’s thigh. “That’s really amazing,” he looks at Patricia and smiles a crooked, toothy grin, “I’d love to be married and have kids someday.” 

Owen excuses himself to the restroom before their dinner arrives, and a chuckle explodes from Leland. “Holy shit, you’ve been dating for how long?”

“Hey, knock it off,” Patricia says. “I didn’t blurt out how you two fucked your way into a relationship.”

Eric nods, “I, for one, appreciate that you did not.”

“What the fuck does it matter? We’re together now.”

Eric shifts in his seat, “At least he knows what he wants. It must mean he likes you a lot.”

“Or he’s desperate.”

“Lee!” Patricia hisses. “Are you saying--”

“Calm down.”

“We want the best for you,” Eric says.

Patricia rolls her eyes and puts a heavy elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. “When did I acquire two more dads?”

“When you agreed to marry us.” Leland smiles and shrugs, dropping his eyes to his glass of water. “Honestly, he’s not bad.”

“A little weird, but I like him,” Eric agrees.

Patricia sits back in her seat, tucks a piece of red hair behind her ear and fails to hide an embarrassed smile. “Thanks. I like him too.”

On the drive home, Eric tugs at his tie and unbuttons the top button of his shirt to release the heat around his collar. “We did fuck into this, didn’t we?”

Leland side eyes him, then looks back to the road. “Having regrets now? It’s a little too late.”

Eric chuckles, “No, no, but…” Eric looks at his reflection in the window, sees a hollow pit of blackness sitting on his shoulder that scares away and reveals Leland when he blinks.

“Spit it out, big guy,” Leland says. “Are we fighting?”

“God no,” Eric rubs his fingers at his brow and tries to find the words. “Have you ever… Wondered why?”

“‘Why’ what?”

“Why we did that? We aren’t those kinds of people…” Eric trails.

The car stops at a stop light. Leland squeezes his hands on the steering wheel. “I’m not proud of it. But I don’t regret it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s not what I’m asking… I’ve just never cheated on anybody.”

The light turns green, and Leland presses on the gas pedal. “Again, I’m not proud of it. It was a shitty thing for both of us to do, but I’d rather not...” Leland tilts his head and swallows his words.

“I wouldn’t want to live without you either, Lee.”

They make it home, but the question sticks to him like a parasite. He studies Leland, watches his moves and catalogs them, cross references them to memories that are more like feelings. Leland does his stretches for the night, pausing briefly to laugh at something on television. His hair is feathery soft, gets caught in his lashes, pushing it aside with the back of his hand. His lips seal, his top teeth playing with his bottom lip before he turns his head and looks up at Eric. “What?”

But why?

Eric shakes his head. “Nothing.”

The two pots of coffee that he’s emptied into his coffee mug keep him awake until an hour before his alarm goes off. He repeats this for days until shadows reach under his eyes and memories that aren’t his come in as if they are. Leland asks him when last he showered; he shifts and wakes when Eric makes it to bed and asks him what’s wrong.

It’s nothing.

“What did you mean?” the voice says, the next night. Eric stares off at the wall of his office and shakes his head. “What did you mean about false memories?” He leans back and rubs his fingers along a chin that has grown rough and gives into another sleepless night.

Eric remembers dull rooms with chilly drafts, and candle wax that melted off the edge of desks and snuffed out at the end of wicks. He remembers hushing fevered breathing between his lips and letting himself come as undone as the belts at his waist. He remembers dark hair like ravens feathers, clean flavors that left him craving.

“Eric,” the voice says his name for the first time, “What did you mean?”

He sits at his desk again. Tired, again. Remembers the feeling of dark hair tangled in his fist, his fingers running up soft planes of skin, round and plump, thick. Again. Heavy. Muscular and carved like stone that’s been weathered for years, ages, lifetimes. Lips that fit to his like crags, whole and clean and together, again.

Leland coaxes him to arousal one night, rides him until Eric doesn’t hear the voice anymore, puts his hand to Leland’s cheek, loses himself in forgetting, feels familiarity in dull lighting and Leland’s powerful motions. And in exhaustion, he forgets. Erwin forgets.

“Eric!”

“Oh god,” Eric pushes Leland off of him and grabs his cock, “Fuck.” He doubles over himself, stroking himself slowly as he finishes his orgasm with a fear that sets his whole body on fire. “Lee, honey,” he croaks out, “I’m sorry.”

Leland moves to the edge of the bed, runs his hand through his hair and tugs at the roots. “Stupid.” He shakes out a groan and rushes to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

It was so stupid, like the time they first met, clashing iron to an anvil, hammering and shaping into a relationship that was forged with words found between bedsheets. Eric fell in love fast, questioned so little, ran fingers through raven hair that fell to shoulder blades, raven hair that didn’t fall past earlobes.

“Vasectomy,” Leland mentions over dinner. “Eric?”

But why?

Eric blinks and looks up from his meal. “Hm?”

“Can we talk about you getting a vasectomy?”

Eric pokes at a steamed carrot, thinks of his mother, thinks of quiet times during the night where he watches Leland sleeping, imagines him being exhausted from long days of dancing on waxed floors and between after school obligations. He thinks that maybe they’d actually make good fathers, especially in these quiet times. “You’re on birth control.”

“It’s reversible if your manhood is so fucking fragile.” Leland spits, slamming his fist down on the table before retreating back in his chair. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re fine.” Eric soothes. “We’re careful.”

Leland’s lip quivers, his thumb rubbing hard against the fork in his hand before he sets it down on the table. “I don’t want kids.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not…” Leland sits a little longer, working through the thoughts that Eric knows all too well. The rejection letter from his therapist a few years ago, the persistent fear of losing his body to a part of him that he never held any love for. But Eric wishes. He’s selfish, because they’d make good fathers now. He knows it.

“I’ll look into it.”

Leland swallows, the glassiness of his eyes fading as he blinks, but he doesn’t finish his dinner. Doesn’t pick up his plate. He moves from his seat at the dining table and heads toward their bed, alone. Again.

Another cup of coffee, another instigation from a voice that sounds like his but isn’t, time that melts away on calendars, slips through his fingers like water, like sand, again, again.

“”Ric,” Leland stands in the doorway to the office, rubbing his fingers along the driftwood wall. It’s one in the morning and Eric’s coffee has grown cold. Leland looks him up and down, sadness deep in his features as he takes one step into the room only to step back, finding safety in the foundation of the makeshift doorway. “Why don’t you come to bed?”

Eric looks up at him, eyes lazy and slow to focus, feeling a chill shoot through his body at a question he’s too ashamed to answer. “Lee…”

“Talk to me…”

“False memories,” the voice says.

“Work,” he answers, but it sounds so flimsy. “Classes--”

Leland strides into the room. Eric’s heart throbs, jumps to his throat, feels Leland’s lips on his like the first time--thirsty and heated, no hesitation, no exploration, like they had been together forever, forged at the same furnace. Eric’s hands run up the small of Leland’s back, feels the warmth and groans against Leland’s mouth, remembers hiking Leland’s skirt up his legs the first time, pulling panties down and discarding them somewhere on his shitty apartment floor. Unbuckling belts, having the tie around his neck pulled loose, the weight of the jewel present and heavy on his chest. “Lee,” Eric whimpers.

“Please,” Leland begs against his lips, moves Eric’s hand down his back, to his ass. An invitation.

Eric groans. “Are you sure?”

“You’re sleeping with me tonight.”

“Lee, baby,” Eric kisses him, brings his other hand up and runs it through raven hair, silky and clean, smelling of open air. “Can we…” Bodies bent over desks, hands pressed into napes. False memories feeling real. “Do it here?”

Eric cleans off the desk as Leland leaves to retrieve some necessities. He takes a candle from Leland’s desk and places it on his, lights it. Leland returns, and Eric coaxes him in with kisses, twirls him around and pushes him against the desk.

“Memories,” the voice says. “Do you remember?”

“Do you remember our first time?” Eric peels Leland’s boxer briefs down his ass, runs slow fingers up Leland’s wet cunt and circles his middle finger around his hole, Leland gasping as one digit slips in with slight resistance. 

“You had me over your kitchen counter.”

“I ate you like you were dinner.”

Leland shudders as Eric’s finger leaves him. He grabs at the desk, the candle light flickering. Eric breathes in and squeezes lube into his open palm. Like oil, old flames that licked at pine mouldings.

“You’re still so beautiful,” Erwin says, pressing a digit in, kissing Leland’s nape as he shakes against his touch. “Every part of you.”

“Erwin,” Leland gasps, presses against Erwin’s finger as another one eases in. “Oh my god.”

Erwin works Leland open to satisfaction, takes little time to enter him with a chorus of moans, the desk shaking with the first thrust. Erwin moves slowly, until his hips hit the back of thighs with the sound of leather snapping. Leland moans, loud enough to seep under the crack of doors and to remind everybody on base that he belongs to and fights for one man. “Harder,” Leland begs, the candle wax dripping and pooling toward fingertips, illuminating papers of maps and formations and other half remembered things.

Erwin obliges, slams hard into Leland until it becomes too much, but he remembers this time, his voice shaking in feelings that are overwhelming. “It's ok,” Leland groans, pressing his pelvis to the edge of the desk, shaking as Erwin comes in him, holds Erwin’s hand firmly to the desk to keep him.

Erwin breathes in along Leland’s neck, kisses up to his ear and nuzzles his nose against his cheek. “I love you,” and the words, they feel foreign, like things he’s always wanted to say, has always felt, but was never able to say. He says it again, lets it solidify in time, lets the universe know, feels his heart breaking and remending when he says it a third time. He feels the burn behind his eyes, squeezes them shut as he buries himself deeper in Leland, tears speckling the desktop as he folds in around him. “I love you.”

Leland shifts under him, sighs out happily. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay. it's been a rough month, and also i was really unsure of what needed to happen next. the good news is the next three chapters are pretty much done... .... i just hope i ended up putting this in the right spot after all. i also had to delete 500 words to hit my stupid 2k/chapter limit. i think it kind of shows, but uh... whatever. it's ok. lmao.
> 
> as always, comments and support are just... wonderful. come and talk to me on tumbls if you wish. love you babies. <3


	8. The Lighthouse

The wind whips at Leland’s hair, a piece sticking to the corner of his left eye as he squints into the sun. “Say ‘cheese’, ‘Ric!”

In unison they say it, Leland snapping the photo, the polaroid rolling out from the front of the camera. Leland takes it, shakes it within his hand as Eric tilts his husband’s head up to kiss the salt from his lips. “You taste like a seal’s ass,” he grins, getting elbowed gingerly in the gut.

Leland grins, leaning back into arms that fit around his shoulders perfectly and bites at his bottom lip that has grown chapped from the ocean air. He holds up the polaroid, their faces fading into view one color at a time from an amber haze. Behind them, the Block Island Lighthouse sits on Eric’s left shoulder, materializing like a ghost--a shadow. “This is a good one.”

Eric holds his breath as he waits for the lighthouse to develop, hoping for it to develop faster, feels the weight of eyes on him that he refuses to entertain. He swallows, squeezing Leland closer to him, kissing the top of his head. “Probably the best one yet.”

They walk barefoot along the beach, fingers loosely intertwined, seagulls laughing above them, fluttering to the sand with wings flung open like full sails. They walk along with them, the ocean sighing and licking their feet, sand growing soft and trying to snare them in place like quicksand. They pause, turn to watch the waves roll in and out, Leland squeezing Eric’s hand as he rests his head against Eric’s arm. 

To the east, the world goes on forever. Over the horizon, somewhere, is Europe. And beyond that, Asia. And eventually, over the Pacific, round and round, the horizon--Eric turns his head to look behind him, sighing out the tickle of anxiety in his chest when he sees nothing there--the horizon always comes back around again.

They have dinner, picking a place that overlooks the ocean with big bay windows. They talk little, the change of seasons bringing in the comfort of normalcy and routine. Tenure has brought a relief to their home, but Eric still sleeps little, blames it on stress when Leland comes to his door with begging eyes. He’s not one to look a gift horse in the face, he explains. He still needs to work hard. He fails to mention the voice, or why a name of a man he doesn’t know sits in his notebook like an admission of adultery. Leland smiles weakly, squeezes his hand from across the table, reassures him, as always, that’s he’s there for him. It’s what the ring is for, afterall.

The sun hangs lazily in the sky, the ripples on the ocean turning into lemon slices, to orange slices, to grapefruit slices. The last ferry leaves at seven, and Leland keeps their feet in the wet sand for as long as he can. His rolled up pant legs are soaked through to his knees, and he kicks up foamy, cold water up across the front of Eric’s dress shirt. Leland makes off, the sand providing no obstacle to a man fit to lift and lunge and dance like he does. Eric chases after him, stumbles and falls to his knees, laughing hard until it becomes too hard to breathe. He gasps, grits his teeth, feeling sand grind across his molars.

They could be so much more than this.

“We can,” the voice says.

Eric sits up and back on his heels, watches as Leland makes his way back with a lazy gait and a smile that makes him fall in love all over again. He laughs out on heaving breaths until they steady, swallowing down dry spit that tastes like salt and blood. He looks behind him again, the shadows of footprints in the sand like fossils, proof of their existence, finds himself wishing there could be a pair of smaller prints between them. A family, a thought he entertains and expands on in a beautifully short amount of time, until the tide washes them away. 

This time they can do it. They can be a family.

“Do you remember?”

The early fall sun has set by the time they get home, the car ride quiet as Eric struggled to shake away the thought of tiny footprints in the sand. When they get inside, Leland scurries to the wall next to their dining table, clicking on the three strings of fairy lights hung by large bobbled corsage pins. He removes an empty mini clothespin from the line and pulls the polaroid from his jacket pocket and clips it to the string. “I think you were right.” Leland says.

Eric deposits his keys at the entryway table, slips off his flip flops, and wipes off the remaining sand from the bottom of his feet. “About what, darling?”

“This is the best one.” Leland stands back, rests his butt against the dining table and grips the edge. He smiles up at Eric as he makes his way over, accepts a kiss before leaning into him.

Eric wraps an arm around Leland and rests against the table. “I don’t know. Bass Harbor still--”

Eric squints, tries to catch the air back that punched its way out of his lungs, but he can’t. The dozens of other polaroids of Eric and Leland standing at various New England lighthouses--eyes open, eyes closed, faces cropped, dutch angled--all fit in line with the new arrival. But on his shoulder, sits the void of ink from before and no lighthouse in sight. He shifts forward, studies it, sees the bubbling, the bleeding of color along his collar. “Honey, the photo’s ruined.”

“What?” Leland leans forward too. “I mean, you really gotta shave that shit off your face, but I wouldn’t say it’s ruined.” He looks up with a half smile.

“I…” Eric stares at it, blinks and blinks, spots forming around his eyesight, blacking out the lighthouses along the strings like reverse fireflies. He rests back against the table, arm holding him up as he puts his forehead in his palm.

“Babe?” Leland looks up, puts a hand on his.

“I suppose it’s fine,” Erwin mutters. He clears his throat and looks back up at the picture, the void pulsating, eating at the edges of the colors like a fungus. Growing along his contour, eating at his skin. “My apologies.”

Leland looks at him with a raised eyebrow, “We can take it down.”

“No, no,” Erwin says, swaying and shuffling off toward the living room. “I am simply exhausted. It is beautiful.” Leland catches him before he goes, presses his ring to Erwin's as he pleads without words. “Hm?”

“You have something on your mind.”

“Yes,” Erwin moves his eyes to the polaroids, wishes to fill shoeboxes with pictures of their kids after both their phones did.

“Tell me.”

Erwin breathes in then out of his nose slowly. “Do you think... We'll ever have kids in this life?”

Leland raises an eyebrow, does poorly to hide the wrinkle of disgust at the corner of his nose. “Eric, what are you talking about? This is the life we chose a long time ago.” 

“I know, but…” Eric says.

“I still don't want any.”

“Can we just… Talk about it?”

Leland moves away, taking with it his warmth. The lighthouses flicker. “We wanted to live life together, to the fullest, just us. We're too busy to have children.” He pauses, placing his hands on his hips, eyes downcast. “Too old…”

Erwin sighs softly, turning his head away. He swore, he swore if he lived a quieter life, he would have a family. That maybe even they could have a family. “That’s not entirely true,” Erwin says.

“Is there something else?” 

“What?”

“This just… Doesn't make sense.” Leland tosses his arms out, his shoulders rigid as he struggles to fight against his anger. “I didn't think I would ever meet a guy that disliked kids as much as I did. Why the change of heart? Is 'this life’ too dull for you?”

“Leland, I'm trying to tell you.” Eric says.

Leland squints, says the words quietly like a secret. “What is going on with you?”

The question hits him like a sledgehammer, dazes him, and he tries to regain focus, tries to find shore through the fog of everything, and struggles. But it allows The Voice in, and words become difficult to decipher. “I don’t--”

“Stop thinking I’m an idiot for two seconds.”

“I do not think that,” Erwin says, sternly.

Leland huffs, the anger bubbling and overflowing his pot. “What’s so fucking important that you don’t even sleep anymore? You can barely even button your shirt straight.” Leland glares back at him, “And is the beard really just a new look or...?”

“Leland!”

“I’m worried about you,” Leland mutters.

“I’m fine.”

“Fuckin’ bullshit.”

“Christ,” Eric goes to move, but Leland grabs his arm, holds him down.

“No, talk to me. Do you want kids? Be honest.”

Eric searches his face, the silver of his eyes murky like storm clouds against sunsets at low-tide. He wonders for a brief moment if he’s being setup in the heat of the argument--setup to fail when he doesn’t have time to process. He places a hand on Leland’s, squeezes both against his bicep. “I think so.”

Leland squeezes his fingers, furrows his eyebrows. He doesn’t match eyes with Eric, his mouth cresting into a frown. “That’s not very convincing.”

“We can,” the voice says.

“I do, and maybe with time you can too.” Eric says, sadly.

Leland’s eyebrows knit. “I’m not promising anything.”

“We can still…” Erwin’s eyes rove across Leland. “You're still young.”

Leland tilts his head, his lips peeling to reveal teeth. “You… You aren’t actually saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”

Eric feels a panic resting in his stomach as Leland shifts away from him. “No, darling. No, I wouldn’t ask that.”

“It sounds like you are.” Leland stands before him, shoulders limp. He dances between his feet, as if considering his flight or fight instincts. He settles with pleading eyes on Eric. “Do you…” He brings a hand to his forehead. “Eric, do you wish I was who I was before?”

Eric searches Leland’s face. Beautiful, strong featured--a sheltered man, but one that finds fascination in open air. Where the wind tangles his raven hair and knots it, grows thick in volume with sea salt, where his skin tastes like where the sun mixes with the earth. He’s strong, physically with muscles that roll like mountains; mentally for all the battles against himself, his family, the world around him. Leland is the mortar, puts Eric’s bricks together, cares for him when he can’t care for himself with a persistence and unspoken love backed by dedication.

But The Name feels hollow, misses the moments of love that came through delicate hand touches, or through the moments of grieving over hot tea. The Voice brings secret hopes, squandarded dreams, desires unfulfilled but given a second chance. Eric struggles to focus on his husband in the static of his mind. 

The Voice asks him again about false memories. Asks why they can’t be truth.

“Eric…”

Eric blinks and tries to listen to Leland, to see him, but he’s not Leland… He’s… 

“I…” Erwin says. 

What is his name…

Leland shifts away, knocks his hip into the table.

He's so familiar, the name so easy it tingles on his bottom lip like a static shock. Why can't he remember?

“Lee… Don’t.” Eric says.

Leland’s chest collapses with a deep breath, and tears rim the bottom of his eyes. He shakes his head and backs away with small steps, a complete betrayal painted on his face.  “You know what?” Leland says with a thick throat, “Don’t bother coming to bed.”

Eric stands with broken lighthouses, The Voice looping white noise in his head, the word “truth” fading in and out, like the lazy ebb of an ocean tide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops i have no chill. i was going to wait a couple more days, but i updated the illustration and was like "uh, ok whatever i'll post it"
> 
> thanks to ells for betaing this chapter. it really helped, like a crazy amount. <3
> 
> thanks so much for all the comments so far. i'm getting a bit more vocal with the comments now, but still a bit afraid to spoil things. very interested in answering questions anybody may have tho.
> 
> love y'all!!!!


	9. The Voice

In a crowd, Henry is a man that sticks out like a sore thumb. With wild, long brown hair, tousled up in a ponytail like it’s an afterthought of an afterthought and glasses so large they practically absorb his face, Eric does his best to catch up with the hasty pace of his long time friend. “Henry!”

Henry keeps walking, his head bowed in a binder of papers. Eric repeats his name, nearly shouts it, before finally catching up and slapping a hand against his back. “Hey!” Eric evens out his pace alongside Henry, “Henry, hey!”

Henry startles and stops in place. His eyes blow wide, comically-so behind the lenses of his glasses, as if snapping back into a reality he has done well to escape, before blinking a few times and smiling large. “Oh!” He turns and awkwardly wraps Eric in an embrace, losing some papers from his binder along the convention hall floor. “Hey, hey what’s… What’s up?”

Eric laughs, squeezes his arms around Henry before bending down and collecting the spilled papers. “How are you doing?”

Henry joins him, shoving the papers haphazardly back into place in his binder, folding and placing some upside down in haste. “Ah you know, uh, nothing, uh--” He pauses and runs his hand through his bangs, his voice shaking. “It’s b-been a long time.” He swallows as he shoves the last piece of paper into his binder and stands up. “What about you?”

“Not so good,” The Voice says to Eric.

“I’m good,” Eric says. He hugs his pocket folder of papers to his chest and forces a smile. “Where you headed off to?”

Henry scratches at his hairline, matches Eric’s smile with a toothy one. “Lunch. W-wanna join me?”

They walk to a restaurant outside of the convention center and wait in line for sandwiches for almost thirty minutes as they continue to catch up. Eric talks about his first year of tenure, Henry complimenting him on achieving it so quickly until Eric reminds him that he’ll be 38 in less than a week. Henry explains about his latest research, affirming that it is the same research he has been working on for the past three years. Henry stutters around a laugh, apologizes for his memory, and fusses with the binder that seems to be getting more disheveled with each passing moment.

“Anyway, that one,” Henry says, finally depositing his binder on a table with his lunch. “We’re starting to see weaknesses in the Kraepelinian dichotomy. In so many words, we have emerging evidence that suggests the possibility of a relatively specific relationship between genotype and psychopathology…”

“What is he talking about?” The Voice says.

“Henry,” Eric says, “You know I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He chuckles. Henry is a great professor--one that Eric connected with because marketing requires a certain understanding of human psychology. However, he isn’t a scientist, and Henry often forgets the concept of demographics.

“U-uh, right, what--” Henry takes a large mouthful of his sandwich and doesn’t wait to swallow it down. “Basically, Schizophrenia and Bipolar Disorder aren’t necessarily connected as we once thought. Evidence points to reconsidering this relationship between mood and psychotic illness, as well as their relationships to neuropsychiatric phenotypes like autism.” Henry finally swallows. 

“It can lead to better treatment,” Eric says.

“Treatment?” The Voice asks.

“Isn’t that always the goal?” Henry says, softly. He smiles, looking up at Eric with a child-like wonder glinting behind his glasses, wiping his mouth with a napkin and nodding. “Whatever they say, the human mind is the final frontier.”

They walk back to the convention center. Eric updates his number in Henry’s phone, promises that once winter break comes around that they’ll all get together for dinner. Henry eyes stick on him, at the spot between Eric’s eyebrows, until he shakes his head slightly and graciously accepts the invitation with a warm handshake.

“Until we meet again, Erwin.”

“See you soon,” Erwin says, squeezing his hand before parting ways.

The drive back into Rhode Island is a quiet one. Eric turns on an AM station and listens absently to contemporary jazz. His chest feels light, smiling absently about the events of the day. Henry is easily excitable, hard to distinguish, but a good man that cares about people as much as he cares about science.

“What did you mean by false memories?” The Voice whispers, hurt.

Eric turns up the radio, taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

“What did you mean?”

Eric squints, grips the wheel tight and breathes out his nose.

“False memories?”

Leland greets Eric at the door, a damp washcloth hanging from his pocket. He leans up and kisses him quickly, getting the Cliffs Notes from the day as he dances around the counter cleaning up. “You invited him?”

“Is that ok?”

Henry is a hard man to understand, social cues not being things he reads as easily as brain scans, and Leland is a man of little patience. Leland shrugs. “As long as he doesn’t fucking look at me like a specimen.”

“Treatment?” The Voice asks.

“I will handle it.” He leans over Leland, goes for a kiss, but receives a cheek instead, and it feels like deja vu.

Leland has his final performance of  _ Giselle _ on a Sunday night, and Eric attends it with the same excitement as the first time. When they return to the car, there’s a big bouquet of flowers in Leland’s seat that rivals his own size. He grumbles behind a face full of roses and lilies and looks out the window the whole ride home. They prepare the ritual when they get in: a simple meal of rice, beans, and broccoli; ice buckets; stretches and massages. Eric tries to kiss, tries to ignite a passion that has been fizzling over the past month. Leland goes to bed without him, but doesn’t move away when Eric folds him into his arms to fall asleep.

“False memories.” The Voice says.

It’s one in the morning. He squeezes Leland closer, buries his nose into the softness of his hair, the other man mumbling softly before nuzzling against Eric’s chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, presses his lips to Leland’s head, shakes out a breath that he controls as best he can. 

“Treatment?” The Voice asks.

Eric opens his eyes. He lays for a few more moments before untangling himself from his husband. He shuffles quietly to the kitchen, fills the coffee maker and starts it.

“Eric, why can't they be true?”

Eric shakes his head, puts a hand on the counter and rubs at his eyes. The coffee maker gurgles and spits liquid into the pot, fills the kitchen in bitterness that sticks to his tongue as he breathes in. He takes the pot, grabs a warmer, and a coffee mug and brings them to the office.

“What did you mean?” The Voice repeats, angrier now.

Eric hesitates, afraid to answer as he never has. If he answers, there could be a conversation, and if he has a conversation, it would mean something else--more than hallucinations, or false memories, or voices in his head. Eric pours himself a mug of coffee and gulps down a large mouthful even though it burns his mouth and throat. He places the mug down.

Shadows climb up the office walls behind his desk. “What did you mean about the memories?”

“Shut up,” Eric answers. The shadows remain, fluctuate. Eric blinks and they disappear. He stares, keeps his fingertips on the outside of his coffee mug until they nearly feel scorched. His eyes narrow, irritated by his own stupidity. “You’re ruining everything.”

“Do you remember?”

He breathes deep. He swallows, wonders if he should continue. Quietly, he says, “What?” 

“Who I am?” Eric’s eyes fall to the notebook on his desk where The Name is. The Voice grows silent, but lingers somewhere along Eric's shoulders, shallows his breath. Its shadowy fingers draw up his neck and shake a chill through his body, until they rest on his shoulders, heavy like an imposing presence of a parent.

“You aren’t real. You don’t have a name.”

“But I do.”

“No.” Eric shakes his head.

The Voice, The Name, the shadows--they slither around him, settle in his lap, wrapping up his abdomen and around his arms and makes Eric reach for the coffee. Eric tries to keep his arm steady, but he grabs the handle, his fingers numb to the sensation, the weight invisible in his muscles. The heat sucks to cold against his lips and he swallows down the last of his drink. “You remember.”

Eric groans. He wants to speak, but his throat constricts.

“I hurt him,” The Voice says.

Eric’s eyebrow furrow.

“I did not mean to.”

Eric gets his voice back. “What did you do?”

The Voice is silent. The shadow warbles out like a flicker of candle light against the wall. “I asked too much.”

“What did you do?”

“I asked him... To live without me.”

Eric’s lips move, he leans forward on his desk, rubbing his fingers against his forehead. He huffs out a laugh. “What are you saying?”

“Eric, you’re a good man.”

Eric sits on the words.

“Better than me.” The Voice adds.

“I'm terrible. I hurt him too.”

The shadows peel off from around him, crawl across the desk and take their place on the wall. Squared shouldered and tall, a dark silhouette stretches to the ceiling, breathing, radiating warmth. Eric tries to blink it away, his heartbeat throbbing through his neck as he sinks into his chair, but it doesn’t work.

The memories of flying, of tree tops, of trust that needed no words. Irrational fears that seem rational at the time, like some sort of deep seeded thing that was built in more than one lifetime. Eric squeezes his eyes shut. He says The Name quietly, as if in hopes that The Voice won’t hear: “Erwin.”

“Yes?” The Voice says.

“Who are you talking about?” Eric says.

“Somebody important. Somebody I can’t remember.” Erwin says.

“How important can he be if you can't remember?” Eric says.

“You did not remember me.”

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“I believe,” Erwin’s discomfort weighs heavy in his words. “We may be one and the same.”

Eric worries his lip, nods, shakes his head, slaps his hand on the table. “So what? I had unfinished business or something?” He hisses in a whisper. “Are you… Are you here for…”

Erwin is quiet, the shadow shrinks and sits over the edge of the desk. “He is familiar.”

Eric touches the edge of his notebook, worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “He’s mine.”

Erwin borrows Eric’s chest, breathes in deep. Borrows his fingers, flips through the book to an blank page. Borrows his voice and asks aloud: “May I?”

Erwin takes a pen and scribbles words in a language Eric doesn’t recognize. Writes it with a fluidity that is says otherwise. He watches with curiosity, with fear, with a pain in his heart as he feels the brokenness of Erwin as they both try to remember.

“Your captain?” Eric reads the words. Reaches for his coffee to find none to be had.

“What did you mean about false memories?”

“Nothing.” Eric says, placing the pen down. “I had to explain it. But…”

“I am disoriented as well.”

“Which is why...” Eric starts, but the shadows melt away without another word. He feels Erwin, weighing his arms, opening a hollow in his chest, fogging his mind. He folds over his desk, clutching at his notebook, and crumpling the pages of the foreign words. He gasps back the stinging tears, swallows so carefully as to not choke. He says it with certainty, with a respect, with a safety knowing that the memories are actually that, that he doesn’t have to be afraid of voices or psychosis or the numbness in his fingers. He is fine.

”I suppose we will figure it out together,” Erwin says, aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: i have no idea what henry is talking about either. sorry to that one abstract i basically plagiarized to write his dialog. sorry you're apart of this gay ass fic now.
> 
> ooo boy eric you need some help buddy.
> 
> i appreciate SO much the comments on the last chapter but i kinda struggled to not feel like i was going to spoil things so i kept my mouth zipped. i'm not sure how much i'll reply to comments on this chapter too (BUT PLEASE IF YOU HAVE THE TIME PLEASE WRITE ONE, THEY GIVE ME LIFE I JUST GET TOO EXCITED). and as always, my tumbls inbox is open for any extended questions <3
> 
> thanks y'all!
> 
> interesting fact: this was going to go before "the affair". glad it didn't.


	10. The Captain

His captain.

Erwin sits back in his seat, the office chair feeling hard like oak, doesn’t quite remember when he got here but it fails to alarm him. 

Ink stains the side of his hand, the coffee empty, the time late.

The days feel like glass above water. Watching the surface ripple below him, but feeling like he can drown at any moment. Erwin wakes up, his limbs tingling, his joints slow to move, next to a man that feels familiar. He has scars, but not where he remembers.

They fight, but Erwin isn’t sure about what. He fades in and out, tries to catch words as if they’re tangible things in the air. He constructs sentences--careful building blocks, sterilized and short. Emotionless and frank.

Erwin relieves the air from his lungs. He runs his index finger along the page, feels the grooves of the pen indentations, like scars across his skin that bled and mended.

Silver eyes like moons illuminating his sea, guiding him to a safe harbor when one too many lives anchored him down.

Erwin touches the name, remembers filling his mouth with its syllables.

Erwin says it carefully--cherishes it, sings it, breathes it, loves it: “Levi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bye eric


	11. The Dessert

It becomes harder to wake up in the morning when there’s an emptiness next to him. Leland lays and dozes for fifteen, ten, seventeen minutes at a time. Everything aches--his joints, his eyes, his brain, his heart. He wonders if it’s even worth battling the day if there’s no chance of victory. But he worries, he fears, he’s angry and sad and hateful, and Eric…

Leland presses his face into his pillow and breathes a groan. It’s 9:23 when he finally gets up, standing on legs that wobble like a toddler. He goes to the bathroom and pisses, brushes his teeth, avoiding eye contact with the mirror before stripping down and showering. 

Alone.

Again. 

He slicks his hair back, puts on a pair of loose sleep pants and one of Eric’s old faded concert t-shirts. He passes by the empty living room and into the kitchen, pulls down a pan and begins his prep. Alone. Three eggs, spinach, tomatoes, mushrooms. Turkey sausage. Potatoes. He goes to ready the coffee, but the pot is missing. Leland pauses, bracing himself at the counter edge and breathes deeply from his nose. 

He flips the omelette onto a decorative plate that Eric’s grandmother had made, alongside a few sausage links and a pile of home fries. Garnishing the eggs with a piece of parsley, he takes it and a small glass of milk to the office.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Leland pauses a few steps from the doorway. He looks both ways as if crossing the street, afraid that if he keeps going he’ll be hit by a semi-truck.

“How could the gear work? The human body is too fragile.”

Leland straightens his back, dismisses the irrational idea that there’s anybody else in the apartment. Eric doesn’t have many friends, though he talks to his father on occasion, and he reminds himself that today is a special day. He takes a few steps into the office, a smile on his face that can easily be stolen away. “Happy birth…” His sing-song voice cripples to a croak. “Day...”

Eric’s eyes snap up--laptop closed, no phone in sight, no work papers in front of him. The empty coffee pot is in the corner, and the bags under his eyes layer like a cake. His eyes wander before they settle on Leland, on the plate in his hand. “Oh…” He swivels his chair toward the door, a toothy smile forming on his face. “For me?”

Leland quickly reevaluates the room before nodding slowly. “Sorry it’s a bit late.”

“It is perfect.” He offers his palms as if repenting, places the plate on his desk, and takes a sip of milk.

Leland returns with his own plate, eats in silence, looking cautiously up at Eric as if he’s a shadow that will flick away in the blink of an eye. He collects their plates and cleans up. Alone. He makes camp in the living room to watch television, not paying attention, and dozes in and out of sleep.

Eric comes when it’s nearly two in the afternoon and pulls Leland’s head against the back of the couch to kiss his lips softly. Leland feels his heart jump to the top of his throat, fear sinking through his body and shrinking him into the suede plush. He retreats from Eric’s touch, bringing a hand up to scratch at the inside of his elbow. “Ok, Spiderman.”

Eric stands behind him, places two hands on Leland’s shoulders and rubs his thumbs against his neck. “Hm?” He stares blankly, before blinking and smiling softly with a chuckle. “Oh, yes. Spiderman...”

The fingers leave him, trail against him like phantoms--so gentle. Touches him like he’s fucking worth it; but he’s not. Clearly. The throbbing ache of a sting, swelling across his body--to be left alone, again. He wraps his arms around his legs, tries to focus on the screen, fights the tears that want to choke him, but he wonders… Does it matter? 

Patricia calls him while he’s baking Eric’s cake. They talk about  _ Survivor _ and complain about how that one chick from Nebraska is nothing but a backstabber. She’s somebody that rallies people to her side only to throw them under the bus. “I guess you gotta do what you gotta do to survive.” Patricia states simply.

“It’s just a TV show.”

“Maybe she’s not like that in real life?”

Leland snorts.

They order in thai food for the night. Leland sets out the food on plates--gives Eric his special plate--breaks out a bottle of wine and takes a glass for himself. Leland tries to talk about his day, as if anything happened, as if they hadn’t been sharing the same space the entire day. He looks through the bottom of his glass at Eric, holds it there as he fights back tears that threaten him so easily now.

“You did not eat.” Eric comes up behind Leland as he cleans. He wraps his arms around Leland’s waist, and Leland tenses against the touch, cringes.

“I guess I’m not hungry.”

“I still am.” He kisses along Leland’s jaw, and Leland’s chest grows tight, fingers gripping at the rim of the sink. He wants to push him away, to tell him to fuck off. He doesn’t deserve to touch him. He doesn’t deserve to be touched. Fuck you, he wants to say, fuck you and your office and your lack of sleep and the things you’ve said and the way I love you. Fuck you. I fucking hate you. I fucking hate that I love you.

But he lets him touch; he lets himself become unraveled when Eric runs gentle fingers across his growth. His knees buckle into the cabinet doors, his mouth salivating as he feels Eric’s erection pressed against his backside. He misses him, more than anything. He looks up, pleading at their memories strung across the dining room wall, and he allows himself to love the feeling of being desired, to hate the feeling of being abandoned.

“I love you,” Leland says, face eventually pressed against the refrigerator door.

Eric pauses, repositions them, his cock heavy and full inside him. He tilts Leland’s face to kiss, and it steals his breath, makes him forget everything. Unwanted tears escape and he tries to hide his face. “I love you too, darling. More than there are stars in the sky.” He moves lazily in Leland, the drag of his motions drawing moans from Leland’s wet throat. “Please don’t cry.”

Leland drops his head, fingers grasping tightly at the edges of the door. “Just finish, god dammit.”

Leland goes to shower, Eric following him with a sweet tooth that still aches. He begs for Leland, hair damp and hanging in front of his face as Leland opens him, curls fingers against his prostate, brings him nearly to orgasm before denying him. They rush to the bedroom, still soaking wet. Eric offers himself, takes Leland’s prosthetic cock with beautiful grace--Leland tracing the muscles of his back, fingernails drawing lines across his skin, angry and passionate all the same. 

He hates him; he loves him; he can’t imagine life without him. He’s perfectly imperfect, and he just wishes...

Leland lays next to Eric, breathing heavy, running his hand along his cock, watching as Eric recovers from his second orgasm. Leland jerks harder, the orgasm wrenching a whimper from deep in his nose. He latches eyes with Eric as they lazily open, the look of blue oceans stealing the air from his lungs like a strong breeze.

He wishes he mattered.

“Do you want your present now or after dessert?” Leland asks, dressed and back in the kitchen.

“Are you saying that did not constitute as both?” Eric strolls into the dining area in his boxer briefs.

“Dessert it is.” Leland says. Eric goes in the living room and turns on the television. Leland cleans Eric's plate and places a thick slice of carrot cake in the center. He shuffles to the living room, spins once and presents the cake to Eric with a big smile. He decides, for now, he loves him, deeper than any ocean. “For you.”

“Thank you.” Eric takes his plate and fork. He turns it in his hand, studies it with a small smile before looking up at Leland. “What made you decide to do carrot cake instead of strawberry shortcake?” 

The question sounds innocent, a bit light like a child, but it triggers something in Leland. One misplaced electron escaping to collide into an unstable atom, months of anger exploding into hate all over again, a reaction more expansive than the universe--ever growing. “When have I ever made you strawberry shortcake?”

Eric raises an eyebrow. “Did you not last year?”

“It's always carrot cake.”

Eric looks down at his plate. His brow furrows.

“If it's not what you want,” Leland says, his voice tight, the anger bubbling in his throat. He pulls the plate from Eric's hand, “I'll just throw it away.”

“Honey.” Eric gets up from his seat to follow Leland to the kitchen. “That's not what I meant.”

“If you want something different you could have fucking told me,” Leland's voice rises as he continues into hysteria. “That's fine. I should just be used to it by now.”

“I am fine with this cake.”

“No. I don’t want to poison you.” Leland scoffs as he places the plate onto the counter. “Next thing I know you’ll be asking me who the fuck I am. I’m your fucking husband, not a side piece.” Leland’s face falls flat, lips thin, eyebrows straight. “You got anymore secrets?”

“Darling…”

“Shut up,” Leland snaps. “Unless you’re gonna actually say something worth listening to.”

“I did not mean to offend you.”

“You couldn’t have fucking said something when I was making it? You were in your office all day doing fuckall! And I’m not supposed to be offended?”

“I was working.”

“Bullshit!” Leland screams it, his voice peaking into a crack, and the tears finally breach the edges of his eyes. “Pretend for a fucking second that you mean anything you say!”

“Please calm down.”

Leland’s eyes grow wide. “Calm down?”

“Honey…”

Leland grabs the plate and presses the pedal of the trash can. He tilts his hand, the cake and plate slipping from his fingers. The plate hits the rim, but tilts to the outside of the bin, and crashes to the floor, shattering. Leland feels a shock ripple through his body. He looks up at Eric and swallows.

Eric looks at the pieces on the floor, as if they’re foreign and the change on his face is slow, like the migration of continents. “My grandmother made that for me…”

“Yeah.” Leland says.

Eric looks up at him, as if not recognizing him. “She’s sick…” It leaves his lips slowly, unsettled.

“I know.” It’s firm but broken as the tears start. Leland drops to his knees and starts to clean up the pieces. “Shit, I know...”

“Why did you not listen to me?”

Leland looks up at him, lip quivering, salt rimming his lips. “Because I have no idea what the fuck is going on! When… Have you… I’m right here...”

Eric shifts, steps back, places a hand to his forehead and shakes his head. He walks off toward the office.

“‘Ric! Where are you going?”

Eric stops, turns his head, slowly looks up to match eyes with Leland. He’s hard to read, features like stone. “I do not want to say things I will regret.”

“At least you’d be talking!” The pieces are sharp in Leland’s hands, tiny and splintered. A sob bellows from this throat. “Don’t fucking walk away from me!”

Eric shakes his head. “Why talk if you will not listen?”

Leland gasps in, watches him disappear. Again. Alone. He clenches the broken pieces tightly in his hand, captures the cry that nearly breaks his ribcage open. The tendons in his neck snap taught, his teeth gritting, and he figures he never really hated Eric...

He just hates himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello leland
> 
> i'm trying to figure out how i want to proceed from here. i expect the writing style may change a bit now that we're in leland's head, i'm just not quite sure HOW. i have plot points i want to reach, have ideas for the next 2-3 chapters... it just might be a couple of weeks before the next update. again, i'm definitely still figuring this all out, but i love it so much.
> 
> any questions or comments you have are always welcome. i love chatting with you all!
> 
> thanks to ells for reading this and offering some much needed insight. it was very helpful for several parts of this chapter.
> 
> woo!


	12. fraNAgmeMEnts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dysphoric terms abound.

Leland piles the broken pieces onto a dish towel and gathers it up with a gentle tinkle of glass on glass. He moves to the bedroom, placing the towel on the floor between the wall and the bed and goes to the bathroom to clean his hands.

They bleed into the sink, crimson swirling down the drain, the pain dulled by the heat from the water. Some cuts are deep, enough for stitches from what he can remember, but bandages will have to do.

One bandage per finger, blood soaking the pads within a minute, seeping out the edges.

He knows why. 

He grabs some super glue and returns to the bedroom. He sorts through the pieces, rocking back and forth on his knees, pausing at times to keep the panic down. His mind races. Everywhere. His fingers shake as he picks the pieces. He can't believe he did this. He sniffs deep, groans out as he sorts. Sorts. Shuffle sorts. Eric's in the office, and he won't come to bed.

He knows why he went home with Eric that night; why he let him get deconstructed into puddy on Eric’s counters and couch and bed like some kind of loose teenage whore after prom. He knows why it was so easy to cheat, despite being so fiercely loyal.

Eric was a mark that night: tall, hair mussed, sweat trailing down the front of his band branded v-neck that matched the band playing on stage. Leland moved toward him, like a beacon, like a lighthouse. He didn’t see a wedding ring and wasn’t sure if he cared if there were. He moved up against him, pressed his back to his front, snaked his arms up around his neck and swirled his ass on Eric’s crotch. He was thick and packing, and all around incurably drunk. His arms came down to hold Leland, forgetting the overfilled plastic cup of beer in one hand, the foam sloshing down the crevice of Leland’s chest as Eric bent to lick the sweat from his neck.

He knows why he went home with Eric. His boyfriend told him the night before that he should rethink the name he chose, which then ended in another series in the plethora of arguments that went nowhere. ‘Leland’ wasn’t androgynous enough. It would be a hard transition, and what would that fix? 

His clothes burned like fire, and even though he hated what was underneath them, he hated having to present more. Eric ran a hand up his thigh, caught the edge of his skirt in his hand and pulled it down to expose his belly. Thick fingers traced the muscles of his torso until they came up to cup his chest. Leland shifted, pulled at Eric’s wrist, and Eric removed his hand, their bodies continuing to move in time to the music, to the crowd, to the thickness in the air.

Leland needed to get out of the house. Lord knows it was going to eat him alive having having to share the same space with Fuller.  He told him he would stay with Isanne, despite their strained relationship as well. He told Fuller he was right--he’d think about it. What was a name anyway? It’s not like it would fix anything. 

“What do you say we get outta here?” Leland said.

Eric kissed a trail up his neck, pressed an open mouth to Leland’s and shared the hoppy flavor of intoxication, an exchange they continued on the trains and the stumbling walk back to Eric’s apartment.

“Sorry, it’s not the biggest place...” Eric went to turn the lights on, but Leland stopped his hand.

“Or cleanest,” Leland said, briefly looking around the apartment--cluttered in every sense of the word even in the dark. His hands moved to eagerly pull at the bottom of Eric’s shirt. He was so fucking horny, so fucking angry, so ready to just forget the stupid fucking shit and just be used like the piece of trash he was. “Does it have condoms?”

Eric slipped out of his shirt, connecting mouths again as he hiked Leland up around his waist. “It does,” Eric said, placing Leland on the counter. His fingers pressed against silk panties that had gone wet, a finger slipping into his cunt with delicate ease. “But I’m going to take care of you first.”

Leland breathed heavily against his lips, shifting and grinding as another finger joined. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck.”

It was Leland that had been lucky. Once on the counter. Twice on the couch. After crawling his way to Eric’s bed, finally naked and free from clothing, he became lucky once again. He didn’t even think it was possible, he’d barely ever orgasmed with any of his past boyfriends. But everything about Eric seemed familiar. Like for some reason, they were meant to be this close to each other.

And Eric never said ‘pretty’. Or ‘sexy’. Or ‘delicate’. He fucked him hard and kept his hands to shoulders, fingers, legs, waist. He made no comment at the size of his chest, the narrowness of his hips. He didn’t call him ‘ugly’. Didn’t call him ‘fat’. He didn’t look at him like a freak. Any aversion to touch, Eric seamlessly integrated into the exploration, never to rediscover again.

Even if Eric had a wedding ring, Leland was glad he took it off for him.

“What do you do?” Eric asked, brushing a piece of dark hair from Leland’s face.

“Not gonna ask what my name is first?”

Eric searched his face in the dull light and smiled. “If I learn your name, I might fall in love with you.”

Leland barked a laugh and unfolded from Eric’s arms. He stood from the bed, trying to catch his balance as he straightened his back. He stretched his back all the way so that his hands touched the floor behind him. “I’m a classical ballet dancer.”

Eric leaned up on one arm and chuckled. “No shit.”

Leland pushed himself and stood back up, crossing his arms across his chest. “What about you?”

“I’m an associate professor of marketing.”

Leland looked around the studio apartment, pursed his lips, and was impressed that he could even afford this much in the Bronx with a teacher’s wage. “Cool.”

“You… Don’t have to leave.” Eric said. “I mean… I’d like it if you would stay.”

Leland suddenly felt more naked than he was, the flush on his cheeks heating every inch of his body. “I’m gonna use your bathroom.”

“Sure. Of course. Yes.” Eric waved him away, turning to lay on his back.

Leland paused at the door frame. He breathed in deep, considered the boy he had back home that valued his sexuality more than he valued Leland. The boy that made Leland question if what he was feeling was valid at all--if he was who he was. Afterall, if a name couldn’t fix him, how would changing a pronoun do that?

He knows why he cheated, and it wasn’t so he would end up in another relationship. He wanted to feel less human, like the asshole he was for even bothering to exist. So fucking angry and useless and worthless, who the fuck cares? What is a name but an ill conceived joke?

“Liz.”

“Hm?”

“My name’s Liz.”

Eric chuckled again, and Leland found he rather liked the sound. “I’m Eric.”

Leland banged his fist against the doorframe and nodded. “All right, well… ‘Ric… I’m gonna destroy your bathroom.”

The chuckle turned to a roar that had Leland grinning. “You aren’t how I’d imagine a ballerina would be.”

“Don’t worry,” he paused, letting an aching truth settle in the wake of amusement. “I’m full of surprises.”

He slid the door behind him and turned on the light. He leaned heavily against the sink counter and gasped out once. Hesitantly, he looked up into the mirror, dark hair a knotted mess, bite marks decorating his neck and collar and shoulders like paisley patterns. He imagined keeping them, for months, for years, sleeping on that shitty bed on the floor and starting his life anew. He didn’t have many things. This could be the new start. He could see a future, a ring around a finger, a new name…

He knows why he cheated, and it was because he didn’t want to be that anymore… But he had given a name, he had been something he wasn’t for the past four hours, and he gave the wrong name. It wasn’t right. It was a fling. Eric was nothing.

He flushed the toilet without using it and turned the faucet on. Splashing some water on his face, he hung his head, rolling his shoulder at the discomfort of hair tickling his neck. He eyed the toothbrush holder and smiled a sad smile. It was stupid. He was so stupid.

Defeated, he turned off the light and closed the door behind him, entering into the comfort of a dark apartment.

“You ok?” Eric muttered.

“Why do you have two toothbrushes?”

Eric shifted up the bed, his back resting against the wall, his knees falling open to slump his body into. “Shit…”

“It’s none of my business…”

“It’s been an on and off thing.” Eric said, softly. “It’s been more on lately, though.”

“I’ll leave.”

“I said you could stay.”

“Seems shitty.” Leland moved to grab his discarded clothing, his skin crawling and prickling, his chest feeling heavy and crushing and he did everything in his power to fight back the ideas. The fleeting, childish fantasies. As if any of them could ever be real. Who cares that this man touched him in ways that he never knew was possible, respected him without even knowing him. He was just a shitty fling and he’d have to go back home and fucking hate everything. Again.

“Liz?” Eric watched Leland fumble with his underwear, nearly falling over in a lack of grace with the band of his skirt. “Liz, hey.” He crawled to the edge of the bed and reached his longs arm out to grab him by the hips--his hips. His fucking hips.

“Stop!” Leland shouted, instinctively bringing his arms up across his chest. “Fuck… I do too!”

Eric’s eyebrows bowed, his lips going thin. “You’re seeing somebody?”

Leland stared down at him, read the sadness and hurt in Eric’s eyes and nodded. 

“I’ll only ask one more time… I swear you can leave if you want to but… I...” Eric said, running his hands down thighs, knees, calves. His fingers melted off and landed on his own knees, and he looked so childish, so small, so destroyed. “Please stay.”

He knows why he cheated, but he didn’t know why about anything else. Why he fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around Eric’s neck. Why he slid into his lap and kissed him like it would mold him into something different. Eric’s hand came up to the small of his back, pressed him close, but it didn’t ask for anything more. There was something about him--something different.

Because maybe it was how Eric seemed to promise him something. Showed him he was worth something, that maybe someday, he could have a name. And Leland wasn't one to trust, he was a serial dater but never for long. He coasted, he lived--he was broken down and torn apart and he was angry and scared and sick. So sick. So tired.

Eric kissed him, “I'm sorry.” He said, pushing hair from Leland's face.

“For what?”

“I made you cry.”

Leland put a hand to his face, wiped the tear away he didn't know had fallen. He wasn't sure why he said it, what astral forces must have aligned for him to feel as he did, but it happened. It was written in his past; it was their history. “I think I love you.”

And he didn't know why Eric just smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

He never did know why he said it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic really has me going through ups and downs. haha. i'm so scared of it, i swear.
> 
> i'm not sure if this narrative works, and i feel like i don't trust my writing ability enough to sell what's happening... i want to explore their past more, and because leland is depressive and anxious, he's more willing to think about the past than eric is. we're going to see a series of these chapters come up in between the "main" story. i guess if i already went against the fact that this was only going to be from eric's perspective... i guess anything is possible going forward. lol
> 
> thank you commander bae for helping me come up with a deadname for leland. i didn't think it was going to come up in the fic, but i'm a sucker for parallels and everything about their conversation just rolled out so fluidly.
> 
> despite my own anxiety, i really love this chapter. lol.
> 
> ANYWAY. thanks for the continued support and all your lovely comments. *screams*


	13. RETIRED

Hi all. This fic has been retired. I realized it got much bigger and out of control than I expected, but really, really want to tell this story, and tell it correctly. Please follow the rewrite at this link: <https://archiveofourown.org/works/16536788>

This one will remain up for prosperity. Thank you for all of your support. It has been incredible.


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